


A Weekend in Vegas

by BingeWriter



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Las Vegas, Morning After, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3407657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BingeWriter/pseuds/BingeWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after episode 1.09, "Year's End." Oliver has just had his ass kicked by the Dark Archer. In this AU, Diggle suggests he see a discrete physical therapist he knows in Vegas. Oliver, however, being a Grade A Man Whore, goes to Vegas and has a one night stand with one Felicity Smoak instead. But if the one night stand really stayed just, you know, one night, there wouldn't be a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is my first ever fanfic, which means feel free to tell me if it sucks, but like, in a nice way. Praise would also be awesome though. Just, any comments really. And Kudos, and all the other good things (I don't know how this thing works yet). I hope I keep going with this. I really like it so far. If you have any questions about the chronology of it or the details of the AU, feel free to ask me. I'm not sure how well I explained it in the summary. Thanks!

            Oliver fought his way through the crowd of drunken tourists, thinking for maybe the thousandth time what a terrible idea this had all been. Diggle’s physical therapist friend was in the hospital himself, and now he was stuck in Vegas on the weekend before New Years, alone, the pain from his humiliation from the Other Archer still aching in every joint.

            This was his first time in Vegas without Tommy, he realized with a pang. They used to come by every month or so, passing the weekend in a drunken haze, ending up in bed with a girl or two. There was no life in the city when he was alone and sober. Tommy would tell him to get a drink, and suddenly, Oliver needed a drink more than he ever had in his life. The club music thundered in his ears as he pushed past a couple who were practically undressing each other, rolling eyes as he remembered a time that would have been him.

Thinking about Tommy led him to think about Starling City and about all the people there, and there was something of relief in him that he was away from them, away from all the lying and the love that wore him down more than his nightly activities. Thinking about Tommy made him think about Tommy and Laurel. Oh yes, he needed a drink.

A woman teetering on stilettos bumped into his back and he winced. “Ooh, sorry,” she giggled, pawing at his chest. “I’m just so clumsy.”

            Oliver found himself fighting two very different instincts: his old one, to feed her one of his lines and take her back to his California king, and his new one, to run as far from human contact as possible. So he just stood and stared until she was dragged away by a slightly more sober friend and then continued on his quest for the bar.

            The bar was nearly full, the only remaining stool next to a blond woman who was swinging her legs and sipping a martini. The remnants of the playboy in Oliver recognized dimly that they were very nice legs before he claimed the seat and raised his hand for the bartender. He came over, only to head to the woman first. _Of course_.

            She gulped down the rest of her martini in one go and then made a face. “You know I’ve always hated those,” she said conversationally.

            The bartender leaned forward with a flirty smile on his face. “Then why are you drinking them?”

            She leaned forward as well, but the gesture was artless, almost innocent. “I’ve been avoiding tequila ever since that incident in college,” she said in a hushed voice. Oliver and the bartender looked at her curiously, and she shrugged. “It’s a long story. I drank too much and threw up in my roommate’s shoes.” She paused and tilted her head. “Huh, I guess it wasn’t that long.”

            Oliver cleared his throat and the bartender turned reluctantly to him. “A scotch please,” he said firmly. “Neat.”

            “That’s a really manly drink order,” the blond woman observed, and then turned slightly pink. “Not that I was implying that you were manly. I mean,” she gestured vaguely at him, “look at you, manly is putting it mildly, but I wasn’t making a pass at you.” She paused and shut her eyes for a couple of seconds, opened them, and turned deliberately to the bartender. “Just give me your cheapest red wine, please. I give up on the martinis.”

            “No problem,” said the bartender with an amused smirk.

            Oliver could feel the corners of his own mouth turn up as he watched the woman next to him. She was wearing a pale gold dress and her hair was in yellow curls around her face. She was drumming her fingernails on the counter. They were red. She was the most colorful person he’d ever seen.

            Her head snapped around and he found herself looking into her blue eyes. “You’re staring,” she said in a stage whisper. “Which normally I wouldn’t mention but the alcohol has made me even more babbly than usual.”

            “Just enjoying the view,” said Oliver, wincing internally at how easily the line slipped out of his mouth.

            The woman’s forehead furrowed slightly.

            “Sorry,” he found himself saying, not knowing exactly why.

            Her face cleared. “It’s fine. That was hardly the worst line anyone’s ever used on me. Besides, this is a bar in Vegas. That sort of thing is pretty much standard. And,” she leaned towards him and flashed him a brilliant smile, “I did, technically, accidentally hit on you first.”

            Oliver chuckled and then froze at the sound. _When had he last done that_ , he wondered.

            She didn’t seem to notice, turning away from him to watch the bartender make his way over. “Yeah hitting on random strangers is pretty much why I’m here,” she continued.

            The bartender set the drinks down in front of them and they each took generous gulps. “Yeah?” Oliver asked her a bit curiously.

            She gave him a one-shouldered shrug. “I just…woke up and decided that my life’s been in a bit of a rut and I need to…move forward.” She looked a little like she didn’t want to continue the subject, so Oliver stayed quiet. He was sure she couldn’t stay quiet for too long, and, sure enough, she said, “So, what brings you to this crazy, drugged up club in Vegas on a holiday weekend? No offence, but it doesn’t really seem like your scene.”

            Oliver was almost shocked into silence. People usually assumed that this _was_ his scene. Then he smiled at her and raised his eyebrows. “That sounded awfully close to ‘Do you come here often,’ doesn’t it?”

            She turned pink again, and her cheeks matched her pink lips. “No, but if it works for you, go with it.”

            Oliver thought about how to answer. “I was here to see someone, but they ended up not being here. So I decided to stay until my reservation’s over.”

            “Way to be mysterious,” she said, pressing her lips together with amusement. “You had to see a guy about a thing?”

            He grinned and shook his head. “That’s me, mysterious.”

            She cocked her head at him a little too knowingly, her hands twisting together in her lap. “I hate mysteries,” she confessed, but didn’t press him.

            Oliver couldn’t have looked away from her face if he tried. “And what are you doing at this club? Doesn’t really seem like your scene either.”

            She broke eye contact, looking down at her lap. “I actually grew up here,” she said, and if he hadn’t been trained to read people he might have missed the hesitation in her voice, as if she had been seconds from not answering the question at all.

            “Maybe I’m not the only mysterious one,” Oliver said softly. He kept his eyes trained on her face until her head snapped back up to meet his gaze. She simultaneously raised her eyebrows and flushed at his scrutiny, but all he did was give her a tiny smile in return.

He didn’t know how to explain his strange attraction to the tiny blond in front of him. It wasn’t entirely physical, although there was certainly a lot to appreciate. It was more; she _lightened_ him, she brought him out of the hell that was his life. Fifteen minutes with her and the knots in his shoulders had already relaxed. He felt like a normal guy with a normal girl, a girl who made him smile more times in fifteen minutes than he had in years, a girl whose bright pink lips looked incredibly kissable right now. Odds were she would leave in a couple of hours and he would never see her again.

Impulsively, he leaned forward until his face was inches from hers. She looked up at him, mouth a little bit open, and then her eyes fluttered shut and she leaned in the rest of the way. It was a good kiss, slow and careful, her hand coming to rest on his elbow, fingers curling into his shirt. When it was over, she looked up at him with hooded eyes and he said, “Do you want to continue this conversation somewhere else?”

            She licked her lips unconsciously. “Um, sure,” she said, brow furrowed seriously. “That’s why I’m here, anyway, to get laid.”

            Oliver was strangely shocked by her forwardness.

            She flushed. “Wow, I wish I could say that was the alcohol talking but I really have no filter.”

            He shook his head in amazement. She was…something else. “So, what’s your name anyway?”

            She glanced away. “I don’t… This is just a one-night thing. Everything else…hasn’t exactly gone well for me. So this is just a fling and I don’t think I want to do names.” She looked a little flustered now, wringing her hands together. “Is that weird of me not to want names? I’m not a serial killer, I swear.”

            Oliver felt a bizarre mixture of relief and disappointment. “Maybe no names would be better,” he agreed. This was his weekend off, his weekend away from Oliver Queen and all the baggage he dragged around with him, so no names did seem ideal.

            She pursed her lips and tilted her head. “You can call me Meghan,” she said decisively.

            Oliver thought for a second. He supposed he would go with his middle name. It seemed easiest to remember. “Jonas,” he replied, holding out his hand.

            Meghan wrinkled her nose.

            He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t like Jonas.”

            “Nope,” she said with emphasis. “But I guess I can work with it.” She grabbed his hand and pumped it.

            He gave her an amused smile and kissed her again. She met him halfway that time and her mouth opened under his almost immediately, one hand still enveloped in his, the other snaking around his neck to pull him even closer. Meghan pulled away first, resting her hands on his chest for balance.

            “Any more of that and I would have fallen off my stool,” she said breathlessly.

            He huffed out a laugh, gaze still fixed on her slightly swollen lips.

            Her eyes seemed similarly fixated. “So,” she said, voice low and husky. “Your place or mine?”

 

            “I can’t believe you’re staying at the Bellagio,” said Meghan almost accusingly about halfway through their walk.

            Oliver shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s where I usually stay.”

            She sighed incredulously and kept walking, pausing to shake out an ankle, wincing a little.

            “Are you sure you’re good to walk?” he asked, slowing their pace.

            “It’s nothing I didn’t expect,” she said bleakly, gesturing at her six-inch heels. “It’s the price of trying to look sexy.”

            “We can always take a cab,” he reminded her.

            “No,” she said stubbornly, marching on ahead. He followed with a shrug until she spun around, taking him by the elbow to stop him. He turned to face her questioningly and then she grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulled him down and kissed him. This kiss was even less chaste than the last one. Her teeth scraped across his bottom lip and he wrapped his arm around her waist to hold her steady as he kissed her back. They broke apart, panting.

            “What was that?” he asked hoarsely.

            “Just reminding myself it’ll be worth it,” she whispered back, still clinging to his shirt.

            Oliver blinked to clear his mind. It was just incredible how she’d rewired him almost instantaneously to fall into her orbit, but damn if he wouldn’t give as good as he got. He leaned in close to her face so their breath mingled and then growled, “Oh, it will be worth it.” He watched in satisfaction as her eyes darkened.

            Meghan sank back on her heels, grabbed his hand and dragged him back down the sidewalk. “Let’s hurry it up then.”

           

            Oliver walked her through the doorway of his hotel room backwards, kissing her all the while. She started on the buttons of his shirt and his roaming hands found the zipper on the back of her dress, pulling it down with practiced fingers. She kicked off her heels, shrinking by half a foot, and then put a hand on his chest to pause him. “I don’t usually do this,” she said.

            “You said that before,” said Oliver, smirking and kissing her again. “And I’ve heard that before.”

            “Yeah, but I’m hoping that if I say it multiple times it’ll sound less cliché,” she admitted.

            He grinned and pushed down the shoulders of her dress. It fell easily to the floor, leaving her in a matching lacy underwear set. _She had definitely been planning this_ , Oliver thought with appreciation. He let his eyes roam over her soft curves and smooth, pale skin, but just as he reached out, her hand caught his. She looked nervous.

            “I actually haven’t done this,” she gestured vaguely between their bodies, “in a long time. Like a _long_ time, like three years.” She breathed out and squeezed her eyes shut. “Actually pretty close to _exactly_ three years, which is why I think it’s time to move on, finally. Let’s just say my last relationship didn’t exactly end well.”

            Oliver grimaced as he thought of Helena. “I think there’s a lot of that going around,” he mumbled.

            “So yeah,” Meghan said, her voice faster now, nerves bringing a flush to her cheeks that spread out across her neck and chest, disappearing somewhere under her lacy, dark blue bra. “I just wanted to warn you, well not like, _warn_ you, cause I’m sure it’s like riding a bike…”

            “Hey,” said Oliver softly, cupping the side of her face. She leaned into his touch, nose wrinkling slightly.

            “Sorry, I talk a lot, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

            Her eyes were still shut, so she yelped slightly in surprise as he kissed her. He smiled into her mouth at that. She was…adorable. And somehow, this quality of hers was really, really turning him on. He let his lips slide down to her neck, her pulse beating a quick tempo against his mouth. “I don’t mind,” he mumbled into her soft skin.

            Her hands came up to cradle his head. “You are good at that,” she said with a sigh, and then, “Ooh, don’t stop doing that like _ever_.”

            He reached down to put a hand on her thigh and tugged upward, and she obligingly brought her legs around to wrap around his waist. He put a hand on her ass for balance (what an ass she had) and, still kissing her neck, carried her to his bed, tipping her gently backwards until she was sprawled on the white comforter, her hair in an arc around her head.

            He paused to admire her, but she tugged him impatiently forward, intent on undoing his shirt. When she was finished, she shoved the shirt away and he tossed it away. Leaving him shirtless, leaving her staring at his chest, scars and all.

            Meghan’s mouth was a perfect O as she looked at the slash marks on his belly, the bullet wounds on his shoulders, the bite mark in a star shape opposite his heart. He’d memorized the scars long ago. He’d also memorized the various expressions of the people who saw them: pity and horror from Thea and Laurel, neither of who had never looked at him the same way again, or a twisted sort of empathy, like from Diggle and Helena. It reminded him of who he’d become, how he could never go back, never be ordinary, never be truly understood by the people he loved. Looking at Meghan now and waiting for her inevitable questions hammered in for the first time what a terrible idea this was. No number of one-night stands with cute blonds could let him escape the travesty that was his life. It was naïve to think so; it was the way he would have thought _before_.

            An excuse sprang to his lips. He was seconds from pulling away when Meghan reached out and ran her thumb lightly down his abs. “Wow,” she said softly. “You are _ripped_. Is this even real? Are you real? Is this what you really look like?”

            Oliver couldn’t help the confusion that slipped out then. “You’re not going to…” he began, unsure, breath hitching as her hand dropped lower and lower on his abdomen.

            She looked steadily at him and then rolled onto her side. She tugged her lacy panties down by an inch, making the blood rush to his ears, and then ran her fingers over a small, Gothic skull tattoo on her hipbone. It looked so out of place on the colorful, babbling girl that he felt like laughing. “This,” she said, a little sheepishly, “is something that I really don’t want to have to explain. So if you don’t mention this, I won’t mention yours.”

            Something like wonder hit him hard in the chest and he found himself speechless.

            “Deal?” she asked sweetly, pulling her panties back into place.

            In response, he buried his face in her collarbone once more. Her hands came up to explore the planes of his chest as he licked and sucked around her neck, enjoying how she squirmed and squealed under his mouth. He reached a hand under her to unclasp her bra just as she reached his waistband and worked the button off, pulling the zipper down. He tore his mouth off her smooth skin just long enough to gasp, “Condom?”

            “In my bag,” she said, gesturing vaguely over to where her dress and shoes still lay scattered across the floor. He retrieved it, wondering when he’d stopped carrying them around (definitely shortly after he nearly drowned while cheating on his girlfriend with her sister), dumped the contents on the bedside table, and sorted through the pile of stuff. There was lipstick of various shades, an entire pack of red pens, a pair of square-frame glasses, and, strangely enough, a pink Swiss army knife.

            “You brought _seven_ condoms?” he asked incredulously.

            Meghan sighed. “A girl can dream. Besides, my plan’s been working so far!” She did a cute little fist bump.

            Oliver laughed aloud and brought one over to where she still lay. She’d taken her bra off, exposing white breasts with puckered pink nipples, and as he watched she slid her panties down her legs too, letting them drop to the floor, wriggling invitingly under his gaze.

            “You just gonna stare, Jonas?” she teased, tilting her head to the side. She stuck one hand between her legs, her eyes on his chest, three fingers working on her clit. Oliver almost lost it right then and there. He growled and pounced on her, mouth finding her neck again. He put one hand gently on one of her breasts, rubbing slowly in circles, and then harder until she moaned loudly, so loudly his head snapped up and her hand clapped over her mouth. “Sorry,” she whispered.

            He leaned over her until they shared the same breath and then whispered, “Actually, that was hot.” He expected her to blush but instead she reached across and pushed his pants down, grabbing him through his boxers. He grunted. “What?”

            “I’m ready to go,” she whispered into his mouth. “And it seems like you are too.”

            He swallowed. “Yeah I’m definitely ready to go.” The smile she gave him was pure sin.

            She tugged at his boxers until they slid down, and he unwrapped the condom and rolled it on. Meghan watched him, propped up on her elbows, licking her bottom lip guilelessly. “How do you want me?” she asked, staring unabashedly at his cock.

            “How do you want it?” he asked, transfixed on her face as she considered the question.

            “Hard,” she replied breathlessly. “Fast. That’s the M.O. for one night stands, isn’t it?”

            He hissed out a breath, looking her over from head to toe. “On your hands and knees,” he said in a voice so low he saw her shiver.

            “Oh, _yes_ ,” she said emphatically. She flipped immediately, wiggling her ass in anticipation. He clambered onto the bed behind her, just watching her for a minute, open, wet and ready. Before he slid in, he found her clit with his thumb, rubbing furiously until she gasped. “Hurry it up back there, Jonas,” she called over her shoulder, her voice tight, almost like she wanted to get this over with. Oliver frowned down at her, but it was too good an invitation to pass up. He thrust in without warning and she moaned and then said, “Wait, give me a moment.” He watched as she took two deep breaths, and then wiggled her hips again. “Okay let’s do this,” she whispered.

            Oliver started out slow, holding his breath as he felt her warm wetness surround him, but she thrust furiously back at him, and it didn’t take long for him to break and fuck her the way they both wanted. She rocked back and forth with him, not keeping silent even for a second. “Oh yeah, just like that,” she panted. “That’s a…good angle. Don’t hold back. With abs like that you can definitely go faster.”

            Oliver smiled even as he slammed into her with even more force, ignoring the pain in his joints to give this girl what she wanted. The heat of an incoming orgasm started deep inside him but he squeezed his eyes shut. Not yet. Not until he’d made her come. The sounds Meghan was making and the sound of their bodies hitting each other was almost enough to put a stop to his resolution immediately, but then, thankfully, Meghan groaned, “Oh, I’m definitely almost there. Just hold on…”

            She sank forward onto her elbows with a cry and he grabbed hold of her hips and followed her forward onto the bed and into his climax. He lay atop her for a few minutes, breathing with her, until she moved underneath him and he slid off. “I’ll be back,” he told her quietly and headed to the bathroom to clean himself, wrapping a towel loosely around his waist. He figured she would probably leave soon, feeling a pang of disappointment, but this was Vegas, where there was no need to spend the night.

            She followed him in, distractingly naked, heading straight for the towels. “That was good,” she said matter-of-factly. “Thank you.” She grabbed one, ran it under the sink, and cleaned between her legs.

            Oliver watched her, half-hard already. “I could say the same to you.”

            She beamed at him, still scrubbing her thighs. “Really? That’s great cause I was super worried. You have like this playboy vibe going…” She paused and frowned at him. “Do people even say ‘playboy’ anymore? It sounds super 50s. Anyway, you’re…” she waved her hand at him, “and I’m a nerdy IT girl who hasn’t gotten laid in three years.”

            Oliver blinked at her. “You’re what?”

            “I work in IT,” she said brightly, switching to the other thigh. “It’s honestly a dead end job that I’m way overqualified for, but I…” Her face clouded over a little, and she just finished with, “don’t mind laying low for a bit.”

            It kept hitting Oliver how little he knew about the tiny girl in front of him, and this bothered him more than he cared to admit. Nearly every person in his life had that speck of darkness in them, as much as he tried to pretend otherwise. And here was this woman, who clearly had some secrets of her own, secrets big enough to wipe that sunny smile off her face, and he could still see no darkness in her.

            “Where did your mind just go?” the woman in question wondered. She’d wrapped the towel around her, which was disappointing. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I mean obviously you don’t have to tell me. That’s how this deal works, anyway.”

            “Deal?”

            “Yeah, you know, the Vegas Weekend of Sin,” she said, punctuating her last few words with jazz hands. “A short, torrid affair that ends with both people still strangers, going back home, never to speak again.”

            Oliver couldn’t help but smile at her antics, but quickly dropped his voice to a low whisper. “What we just did was nowhere near torrid.”

            Meghan’s mouth dropped slightly open, but then she smiled widely. “Does that really work on people?” she wondered, and laughed as he growled and tugged her to him, kissing her hard on the mouth. She dropped his towel and then ran one hand up his back and one down to rest on his ass. He pushed her away, and when she looked questioningly at him, unwrapped her slowly like a present, relishing the moment the towel crumpled to the tiled floor and she stood naked again before him.

            Meghan worried her bottom lip between her teeth, and he reached out and tugged it gently loose. “Where did your mind just go?” he teased, bringing her forward with a hand on her hip.

            He didn’t expect her to run a hand up his chest and bring her face close to his, whispering, “I was thinking I still have six condoms left,” but then again, he didn’t expect any of this. So he had no choice but to scoop up the blond bridal style, carry her out of the bathroom, and have her again, this time up against the wall. She really seemed to enjoy that, nails scratching lightly down his back, and even though his legs screamed with the pain of holding her upright, her uncensored moans of “Damn, this is hot,” were more than sufficient motivation to work through the ache.

            The obvious next step was to lay her out across the bed and work her with his tongue, taking his time, riling her up as much as he could. She cursed like a sailor with every one of his strokes, her heels drumming on his back, her hands stroking through his hair. He had to pause every now and then to laugh at a particularly ridiculous turn of phrase, and every time, she’d push him back down, saying, “Don’t you _dare_ stop now.”

            She came dramatically, writhing on the bedspread, hands clawing at her sides, curses still flying from her lips. He rested his chin on her abdomen, waiting for her to look down at him, and when she finally did, he said, smirking, “So, oral turns you into a potty mouth. Good to know.” Then, he wondered _why_ it was good to know, considering he’d never get to do that again.

            She didn’t seem to notice, just gave him a hooded look that, impossibly, made him half-hard again. “That was incredible,” she breathed.

            An unexpected wave of tenderness hit him in the gut, and he kissed her belly. “Come on,” he said, sliding off the bed. “Let’s get you cleaned off.”

            She squeezed her eyes shut and winced. “Not sure I’m capable of moving right now,” she said, her breath still coming in short bursts.

            “I’ve got you,” he said softly and scooped her up once more, smiling as she nuzzled instinctively into his collarbone. He set her down on the countertop, propping her up on the mirror, and picked up a face towel. She turned sleepily sideways as he got to work and sighed, “My nice curls turned into sex hair.”

            He chuckled. “I kind of like it.”

            “Well good, because it’s completely your fault,” she said pointedly, and he laughed again, wondering to himself when it had become so easy to do that again.

            He picked her up again, setting her down on the bed and crawling in next to her. She moved half-heartedly to slide under the covers, turning into him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. “Wow, I’m sleepy,” she mumbled.

            He kissed the top of her head. “I noticed.”

            She was quiet for a second, and then said, “I didn’t expect it to be…like this.”

            He stayed silent because he knew what she meant.

            She snuggled closer and Oliver slowly ran his hand down her back. Her breathing evened out almost instantly, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

            He had been stupid. He thought he could keep it physical, thought that after Laurel and Helena and Shado and Sara and every other woman he’d attached himself to, always ending in mutual pain, he would be smart enough to do so. But this girl, Meghan, or whatever her name really was, had breezed past his boundaries as if they weren’t even there. Really, he thought, letting himself sink into the bed, into her, he should be glad this was nothing more than a “Weekend of Sin.” He’d proven time and time again that he wasn’t capable of anything more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am overwhelmed and extremely grateful for the response to this story! It's kind of made me a little...obsessed. For example, I wrote this entire chapter in one day, which I doubt is healthy. And I sinceriously hope I don't fail out of college because of this LOL.
> 
> I decided to do this chapter from Felicity's perspective, because why not. Not sure how successful that was, but I definitely had fun. 
> 
> I'm glad you all liked the smut, because I definitely think I kicked it up a notch in heat this chapter. Or at least I hope so. Let me know what you think! I love talking to you guys.
> 
> Disclaimer: I know nothing about technology. Any technology stuff is from five minutes of Googling. So definitely do NOT trust me.

            Felicity drifted into the morning, her eyes opening before her mind rebooted, so she had the expected moment of panic at the insanely muscular chest she was currently using as a pillow. “Oh my _God_ ,” she whispered, sitting up with a start, knocking a heavy arm she hadn’t noticed was draped over her side off and onto the bed. She stared down at the body next to her and said “ _Oh my God_ ,” again, because she couldn’t help it, because he was _gorgeous_. He was ripped beyond reason, arms perfect and bulging and veiny like a Greek statue, and oh my God she’d probably drooled on him. Not to mention his face, and really, it was shocking she hadn’t mentioned it earlier because it was absolutely a work of art, all chiseled jaw and trimmed stubble, eyes somehow still closed in sleep, so she couldn’t check if they were as blue as she remembered.

            At that moment, Felicity let out a noise best described as muffled whale call because she noticed for the first time that they’d kicked the covers away (apparently Jonas was pretty much a personal heater), and his morning wood was just _there_ for anyone to see, and she swallowed hard because that had been _inside_ her, just a few hours ago. Twice! Her knees went weak at the thought, which was absurd because she was still sitting down. _Get a grip, Smoak_.

            Felicity inched her way off the bed scurrying to the bathroom as quickly as she could, pausing to scoop his shirt off the ground, not letting herself dwell on her sudden, intense desire to lick every inch of his abs while they were still hers, which was maybe for another hour, if she was lucky. She opened the bathroom door as quietly as possible and then slipped in, bracing her hands on the counter and leaning towards the bathroom mirror, looking herself in the eye. She was flushed, that was definitely a hickey on her collarbone, and her makeup was smeared across her face, and she had never felt this _good_. “I just had a one night stand,” she said aloud. “In Vegas.” She cringed with a sudden realization. “Ugh I’m such a tourist.”

            But, after a little more thinking, as she studied the hickey with a tiny smile, she found herself surprisingly okay with this development. She shrugged at her reflection. In spite of the occasional moment of panic and almost-regret, she’d successfully seduced the first dude she’d talked to. Sure, he was a stranger, and sure, she definitely would have been freaking out more if so much of her brain weren’t occupied with how hot he was, but the fact remained that it had been _good_. She grinned to herself and got ready as soon as possible, scrubbing the makeup off her face as best as she could and tying her wild hair firmly back. She found some mouthwash, but wasn’t bothered by the lack of a toothbrush because she had _plans_. Jonas’ shirt rolled up nicely to her elbows, and then she had a minor freak out because she had been wearing her contacts all night, which was bad, bad, _bad_. She raced out of the bathroom, cursing softly, sighing with relief as she saw her glasses case lying with the contents of her purse on the nightstand.

            The sight of Jonas stretched out in his naked glory was more than enough to drive the thought of pink eye out of her head. Felicity licked her lips in anticipation of waking him up. She crawled onto the foot of the bed, settling herself as close to his pelvis as possible. She bent over him until her lips brushed the head of his cock, and then, taking a deep breath, took him into her mouth as far as she could go.

            Felicity wasn’t one to brag, except about her hacking and her chocolate chip pancakes, which were, by the way, incredible, but she gave some pretty awesome blowjobs. Which is why she was far from surprised when she felt Jonas’ hips jerk under her as he woke with a start.

            “What?” he gasped, rising up on his elbows to look down at her.

            She raised her eyebrows at him over her glasses, and then hollowed her cheeks out, swallowing deliberately, making him groan, pupils blown.

            “Meghan,” he said in a hoarse whisper. She ignored the flash of disappointment at how wrong that name sounded and put a hand firmly on his abs (definitely next on her To Lick list) to push him back down. He sank back willingly enough and she swirled her tongue around, pushing forward until he hit the back of her throat. His deep groans brought a flood of wetness between her legs, so she discretely brought one hand down to finger herself, the other palm still holding him lightly down. He must have seen what she was doing because she could feel him tense beneath her, keeping his hips rigid, probably to avoid thrusting into her mouth. How considerate.

            She felt him shudder and braced herself to swallow, but at the last minute, he reached down to pull her off him with a pop, his other hand falling down to collect his cum. She pouted a little because she’d been so _ready_ , but then he dragged her up to kiss her on the mouth, slow, thorough, and this was definitely a good start to the day. They pulled apart to breathe and he studied her, a curious expression on his face. “What was that for?”

            She shrugged a shoulder, not wanting to say the real reason of, “You’re super, super hot and I wanted your dick in my mouth,” so she went with, “It seemed like a good way to wake you up. You’ve been asleep for _ages_ , and I couldn’t leave without, you know, saying bye, because that’s rude.” She chewed her lip at that because she definitely didn’t want to leave and why did she bring that up because now he was probably two minutes from calling her a cab.

            A cloud passed over his eyes (yep, they were definitely _that_ _blue_ ) and her heart hammered in her chest as he said, voice more formal than it ever had been before, “Oh, of course, you have to leave soon.”

            It sounded enough like a question that a flush crept up under her skin. “I mean shouldn’t I leave? That’s definitely one-night stand protocol,” she said and then immediately wanted to stuff the words back in her mouth because that was not what she wanted to say; stupid Felicity, stupid inability-to-keep-quiet.

            He didn’t answer, and they looked at each other, faces too close for her to think straight. And then suddenly he jerked upright, bringing her with him. She yelped, and then clapped her hand over her mouth, but he barely seemed to notice. “I’ve been asleep for ages?” he said incredulously, looking around for the alarm clock.

            “Well it’s almost ten,” Felicity said, unsure why he sounded like it was the end of the world.

            “ _What_?”

            Jonas slid off the bed before she was even aware he’d moved. He strode around the room, running his hand on the back of his neck, obviously distressed. She gaped at him, unable to tear her eyes from the rippling muscles of his buttocks. “What are you doing?” she asked weakly.

            “Looking for my phone,” he said without even turning his head, crouching down to look under the bed, which made a strangled noise erupt from her mouth.

            “At least put some clothes on,” she said desperately, and now he looked up at her, brow furrowed, adorably, infuriatingly confused.

            Then his face cleared and he smirked lightly. “You’re wearing my shirt,” he pointed out, and then, before she could respond, he continued circling the room. Felicity thanked whatever higher power there was that the next thing he did was pick up his pants, but all he did was pull his phone out of the side pocket, pressing the home button repeatedly, his expression getting darker and darker.

            Felicity played with the hem of her shirt, the unease on his face somehow palpable in her own chest. “What’s wrong?”

            “My phone won’t turn on,” he muttered, still poking at it, although that would do absolutely _nothing_.

            She sighed. _You don’t choose the IT life; the IT life chooses you_ , she told herself. “Do you want me to take a look at it?” she suggested and he looked at her as if that hadn’t at all crossed his mind. “IT, remember?”

            “Of course I remember,” Jonas said, but he made no move to hand it over, stood stock still, stark naked, thinking.

            Felicity looked closely at him, discerning his problem, and disappointment settled itself in a familiar lump at the back of her throat. “I won’t look at your name, I swear,” she said steadily.

            Unmistakable relief passed over his face, but all he said was, “Of course. I trust you,” which did nothing at all to convince Felicity that this was true. But he handed over the phone with no further hesitation. She examined it closely. There was a dent at one corner, slightly cracking the screen, and she groaned in sympathy for the poor device. “What did you do to it? Did you drop it?” she asked accusingly.

            He raised his eyebrows at her tone and then said, “Well, yes, but it was a week ago. I don’t know why it would act up now.”

            “You must have jostled something inside it,” she said, no longer concerned with Jonas and his trust issues, because she was filled once again with the thrill of holding a problem in her hands and the absolute, immediate need to fix it. She scooted along the bed to grab her Swiss army knife, taking the phone apart in her hands. It had been too long, she thought, relaxing into her usual rhythm. One of the many downsides of visiting her mother was that, “You can’t spend all your time in front of a computer, Felicity. It’s bad for your eyes, and it will ruin your skin. I read it in a magazine somewhere. What you need to do is come clubbing with me. I met the cutest guy and I’m pretty sure he’s single or getting a divorce and I showed him your picture and he said he definitely wants your number!” Felicity shook her head to clear it of her mother’s voice. Phone. Fix. Now.

            She could feel Jonas’ eyes on her as she smoothed out the bedspread and put all the pieces in a neat row, and after about half a minute, he asked, “I think I’m going to get room service. What do you want?”

            “Coffee would be great,” she said absently, and then, soon enough, lost track of him completely. Thirty minutes of careful probing was enough to deduce that the hardware was mostly fine (she took the time to make a couple of improvements of her own, so you’re welcome very much, Jonas) and that the software was where the issue lay. She looked up finally to see Jonas sitting on the armchair, wearing pants now, sipping a mug of coffee. He looked amused at her absorption, as if she weren’t trying to _help_ him by _fixing his phone_ , but then she looked sideways and saw the giant mocha sitting on the nightstand and the cart from room service with two plates, one with a half-finished egg white omelet and the other with a short stack of pancakes, a tiny bottle of maple syrup on the side, and yeah, okay, she supposed she wasn’t _that_ mad at him. She gave him a grudging smile as she grabbed the mug, taking a generous gulp.

            Jonas smiled back, looking slightly relieved. “I wasn’t sure what type of coffee you wanted, since you tuned out completely, but I figured everyone likes mochas.”

            “Yeah, I sometimes phase out,” said Felicity shooting him another tiny smile. “So your hardware looks okay, and by hardware I mean your _phone’s_ hardware, not any other kind of hardware…” She shut her eyes and counted down from three because sometimes she was just the _worst_. She cleared her throat and continued. “So it might be your battery. Sometimes you need to charge these for a few hours and then try switching them on again. It’s a pretty common problem with these phones, which is stupid because I’ve been complaining about it for _years_ , and they’re only going to get around to fixing it for the next model. And that’s totally ridiculous because after two minutes of coding mine totally works fine, but don’t tell anyone that because it’s a little bit illegal. And I’m _still talking_!”

            She chanced a glance at Jonas in time to see him smiling faintly, and then he gave her a more serious look, clearly considering something.

            “What?” she asked, setting her mocha carefully back on the nightstand.

            He took a few moments before speaking. Felicity had noticed that he did that, thought carefully even before making the most innocent comment, as if every word had to pass up to his brain from his heart before it went anywhere near his mouth, which was pretty much the opposite of how _her_ mouth worked. His words had _weight_ , which is why his next ones surprised her as much as they did. “I don’t remember the last time I slept that late.”

            Felicity stared at him, unable to understand why he was looking at her with so much significance. “Well alcohol does that sometimes,” she said lightly, and he hummed, whether in agreement or not she couldn’t tell. “Do you have your charger?”

            Jonas sprang to his feet and unplugged it from the wall, tossing it to her. She slid out of bed to plug it into the nearest outlet, and when she straightened up, Jonas was still staring at her. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

            Grabbing the plate of pancakes, she climbed back into bed, balancing the breakfast in her lap. “Thank _you_ for these. This is mine, right? Too late.” She cut a triangle from the stack with her fork and looked longingly over at the maple syrup, but it was so far away.

            He chuckled. “Yes, they’re yours.” Then he crossed over to the breakfast cart, wheeling it towards her so that the maple syrup was close enough to reach.

            “My hero,” Felicity said happily, clapping her hands together and reaching for bottle.

            Jonas shook his head slightly, smiling, then sat at the foot of the bed still watching her.

            She raised her eyebrows, silently asking what the matter was, gulping down the too-large mouthful of pancake.

            Again, she could see him choosing his words with care, finally saying, “Earlier, when I didn’t hand over my phone right away, I didn’t mean to offend you.” He swallowed, looked up at the ceiling, and continued, “You were right that I was thinking about whether or not you’d find anything on my phone, and I know you wouldn’t ever do that without my permission, but…trust isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

            “You don’t have to apologize,” Felicity said swiftly, because he didn’t. She was the one who’d insisted on anonymity in the first place. She had no reason, no right, to demand an apology.

            He shook his head. “No. I just tend to look at people as…antagonists. It’s my fault.”

            She gazed at him, so adamant in shouldering the blame, so open in admitting his flaws, but so sure that he couldn’t change. “People are just…people,” she said seriously. “As long as you remember that, you should be fine.”

            Somehow that made him look _more_ conflicted.

            “Actually,” said Felicity, trying to smile away the guilty frown on his face, “it’s just cute that you think there weren’t a hundred other ways I could’ve figured out your name.”

            His expression cleared and he smirked disbelievingly. “A hundred?”

            “Well,” she said, spearing another large piece of pancake, “Your wallet was just lying there, and I’m sure that receipt lying on that breakfast cart has your name on it.” He shot a wide-eyed glance at it and she smiled smugly. “Or I could have just hacked the hotel system, since I do know your room number.”

            Something like awe crossed over his face and she flushed automatically. “You can do that?”

            “Yep.”

            “Can anyone in IT do that?” There was a thoughtful look in his eye that Felicity didn’t know the cause of, but then again, she reminded herself, she barely knew him at all. Didn’t even know his name.

            “Well maybe not as well as me. I am kind of sort of a genius.”

            A smile played around his mouth. “Kind of sort of?”

            Felicity grinned back. “Just a little.” And then he gave her that bone-melting look he sometimes gave her and she breathed out, “Thank you for the apology,” because it had been a pretty swell one, and then he nodded so seriously, as if her words were the most important he’d ever heard. And then Felicity chugged the rest of her mocha to hide how pink her cheeks had gotten.

            They sat in a companionable silence for a few minutes, eating the rest of their breakfast. Felicity looked up at his face, and okay, sometimes his abs, and tried to figure out why she felt so queasy. And it wasn’t food poisoning either. It was that she looked at this guy that she’d admittedly banged multiple times, but that was a virtual stranger, and it just freaked her out how comfortable she was. Here she was sitting _in his shirt_ , looking into his eyes and eating breakfast as if this wasn’t _totally insane_ , and she was already deluded enough that the reminder that she didn’t actually know anything about him was able to freak her out. He was a complete mystery, but one that she’d fooled herself into finding familiar. She’d even managed to block out the scars on his chest, scars that looked like torture, and where on Earth could he have gotten tortured like that? And he was rich enough to stay in the Bellagio. So he’d been tortured but he was also super rich? And he could be married for all she knew. In fact, she thought, panic welling up like water in her lungs, he was _probably_ married. That would explain why he was so freaked out by the phone thing. And this was Vegas, where that sort of thing happened every _minute_.

            “Meghan,” said Jonas from in front of her, and she looked up guiltily. He looked concerned, and she glanced away because he was _not_ allowed to look at her like that, especially if he was married. “Are you okay?”

            “Yeah,” she said unconvincingly, and when Jonas frowned harder and put a callused hand on one of her feet she sighed and braced herself for whatever was going to come out of her mouth. “Are you married? Please tell me you’re not married. Or dating anyone. Because I know I said I didn’t want to know anything about you, but that is definitely something I should have asked earlier. I might be pro one-night stand, but I don’t like cheating…”

            Jonas squeezed her foot gently and she ended her ramble, taking a shaky breath. “I’m not married or seeing anyone,” he said reassuringly.

            She sank back into the pillows, relieved. “Oh, good.” Jonas continued stroking her foot lightly, and she could feel her heart racing. No, no, no. She wasn’t allowed to have feelings about this, not when this was completely _temporary_. “I should go,” she squeaked out. “Sometime soon.”

            He drew his hand back. “Oh.” She avoided looking at his face because she was _terrified_ of what she’d see there. “I thought you’d wait until my phone worked again. You know, just in case.” He swallowed. “But only if you want to.”

            Felicity found herself nodding, refusing to analyze why she felt so relieved, and put the empty plate aside. “I’m going to shower,” she announced, finally looking at Jonas, just in time to catch him staring at her legs. And suddenly Felicity figured that now that they’d reestablished that she was definitely leaving at some point, they might as well have a little fun before. “If you want, you can…” She trailed her voice off deliberately, and he stared down at her, gaze pure heat.

            “Oh I want,” he assured her.

            A wave of confidence hit Felicity once more as she fell back into her stride. This she could do; the quickening of her pulse had to be lust and nothing else. She shed Jonas’ shirt on the way to the bathroom, not bothering to look back, knowing he was right behind. He caught her around the waist just as she undid her ponytail and let her hair free. She could feel his lack of pants, which suited her just fine. Pausing only to drop her glasses off near the sink, they walked together through the bathroom, his mouth dropping to her jaw, one of her hands searching for his erection as the other reached for the shower door. They stumbled in, all hands everywhere. Jonas switched on the water and she turned the handle as hot as it could go. He palmed her breasts from behind her, twisting her nipples between his fingers. She arched back into him, searching blindly up to scruff through his short, wet hair. His hands dropped, sliding deliberately down her torso, one moving between them to squeeze her ass and the other headed straight for her clit.

            But it wasn’t fair because he could touch her all over and she could barely reach anything, especially since he was practically holding her up since her knees were, for some reason, not working, so she rolled her hips against him until he gasped, “That wasn’t fair either,” and she figured she must have said at least some of that aloud.

            Eventually, somewhere around the time he was leaning against the shower wall, away from the spray, and she was draped over him with one of her arms around his neck and she rode his fingers while his erection rubbed between them, she stopped caring about how useless her hands were and used her free one to rub her own breasts instead, prompting him to growl into her ear that she was _killing_ him.

            He supported all her weight as she came, legs quivering, his fingers still up inside her, and when she regained her footing, she spun in his arms, stroked him twice, and then dragged him out of the shower, barely remembering to turn off the spray. “We are not done,” she said firmly, doubting he would disagree. They were both soaking wet. They dripped their way across the bathroom and then the bedroom, all the way to the bed. Jonas grabbed a condom on the way. Felicity shoved him onto the bed and he stared straight at her and deliberately licked his fingers. The fingers that had been inside her.

            Felicity made yet another unidentifiable whale noise and jumped him, her legs tight around his waist, her hands cupping his face. He lay back as they kissed, bringing her down with him, rolling over so she was trapped underneath him, but happily trapped. It was a good place to be. Water dripped off his face and onto hers as she smiled up at him. They took a moment to just look at each other, Felicity wondering when was the last time she’d felt so content, and then there was a loud, long buzz.

            Her mouth went dry and she cleared her throat, hoping her voice would come out normal. “I think your phone just switched on,” she said.

            He looked off to the side and then exhaled, quiet but frustrated.

            Neither of them moved for a long minute, until they heard a short buzz, and then another, and then another. “I think those are your texts,” Felicity whispered, taking a breath, steeling herself for his inevitable departure.

            His eyes, when they looked at her, were filled with something bigger than sadness, like resignation. But his voice, when he spoke, was neutral. “I think I can spare a couple of minutes.”

            She almost whimpered with relief.

            Jonas made quick work of the condom and Felicity grabbed his hips as he sank down into her. They breathed together when he was completely sheathed inside, and then, unexpectedly, he pulled her against him and brought her upright, positioning them so that he was seated against the headboard with her on his lap.

            Felicity had not expected this anonymous screw to feel so much like making love. The friction against her core was dim and slow. His palm was flat on the side of her neck, her pulse against his fingers. She braced herself on his shoulders and bounced slowly up and down, her eyes locked on his. Her orgasm was soft, muted. She just gasped once, almost like a sob, and then rested her forehead on his chest, riding him until he finished. Then she kissed him chastely on the mouth and climbed off, heading immediately to the bathroom for her glasses and then to the desk chair where Jonas had neatly placed her clothes.

            Once she was fully clothed and had slipped into her fuck-me pumps, she gathered up her purse and headed for the bedside table with all her stuff on it, stepping around a half-clothed Jonas. He was frowning at the phone in his hand, and only looked up at her when she stood in front of him, bag already over her shoulder.

            “I’m sorry,” he said, but she was already nodding.

            “You have to go,” she said, just as he said, “Something came up.”

            He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a family emergency.”

            “That’s fine,” she said, trying to keep her voice bright. “I was going to leave soon anyway.”

            “Or you could…” Jonas rubbed his fingers together at his side nervously. The look he gave her could have meant anything. “Never mind.”

             Felicity was an organized person, and that included her mind. She sorted out every piece of information, every emotion, every memory, into little boxes, and some of those boxes were labeled very clearly, Do Not Touch. The Do Not Touch boxes starred such people as her father, who had left, Richard, who had cheated the day before prom, Michael, who had transferred schools and never talked to her again, and Cooper, who had died. And now she wasn’t just touching the Do Not Touch boxes; she was emptying them out and strewing the contents across her mind.

             She’d thought a one-night stand would be safe. There would be the physical release and the fun without anything more, not even a number, not even a name. She’d thought that because they were both leaving, because it was completely mutual, that she wouldn’t have to open the Do Not Touch box, that she would move on with a smile on her face and the memories of a good night.

             She didn’t expect it to hurt like it hurt now.

             “Meghan,” Jonas started to say, bringing her to her senses. _That was not her name._

             “That was fun,” she began, noticing the grimace that passed over his face at her deliberate dismissal of everything that had happened since last night. But she kept going anyway. “All of it. The sex and the breakfast. I had fun.”

             He just nodded.

             “Goodbye, Jonas,” she said, like ripping off a Band-Aid, but reaching impulsively for his hand all the same.

             He held hers gently, but squeezed tighter as she tried to let go. He looked conflicted, but Felicity knew that no matter what, he would leave anyway, and so would she. “My name is Oliver,” he said, finally.

             She swallowed. “Goodbye, Oliver,” she whispered.

             He nodded, letting her go. “Goodbye.”

             Felicity walked straight out of the room, heels strangely silent against the carpet, and managed not to cry at all until she reached the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I'm SO SORRY for the angst. I loved writing the fluffy smutty fun times of Chapter 1, but I definitely knew this moment was coming, and it was pretty damn hard to write. But honestly, this is Arrow, and what is Arrow without some good, old-fashioned heartache?
> 
> And don't worry; we will definitely hear more from both Oliver and Felicity's perspectives and also get some insight as to why they're acting like total doofuses (although that seems to be pretty standard for them, especially considering Season 3 so far).
> 
> Also coming are more characters!! (I hope. I haven't started writing it yet, but seeing how quickly I churned out this one, it shouldn't take too long.)
> 
> Talk to me!! Even if it's to yell at me for ruining your day with the angst. I would definitely take that as a compliment too ;)
> 
> -Jo


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks again for the amazing response to my fic. I didn't dare expect anything this good for my first ever fanfic, so I'm flattered and so grateful. Keep leaving those comments! They make my day. 
> 
> Wow, this chapter took me longer than I expected. First of all, I remembered once again that I am a student and therefore busy pretty much all the time. Whoops. Also, this chapter didn't come out as easily as the previous ones. It was tricky because of the switching perspective, and the fact that most of it is filler (sorry about that, but it's necessary). It's also super long, so there's that. I think I'll finish the next chapter sooner because the action is definitely going to pick up.
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
>  
> 
> -Jo

The sound of the door closing behind Meghan snapped Oliver back to the crisis in front of him. He rubbed a hand over his face and looked down at his phone again. Two texts from Thea, one from Diggle.

_Ollie come home the cops need to talk about Walter_

_Where are you? Walter’s still missing and Mom won’t leave her room_

_Oliver I am aware that my therapist buddy’s in the hospital so get your ass back home. Your family needs you_

His phone buzzed longer, Thea evidently deciding enough was enough and calling him.

“Hello?” he said, already moving to tug his duffel bag out from the closet.

“Ollie, thank God, I thought something happened!”

He emptied the drawers, stuffing the contents into the bag. “Sorry, Speedy, my phone died,” he explained, looking around for his shirt, the shirt Meghan had been wearing. He scrubbed his face again, hoping the action would clear his head. Bathroom, right.

“Where _are_ you? You know that Walter’s missing, right? Mom said he was probably staying somewhere for work, but he’s been gone for days now, and the police say they’re going to file a report.” Thea’s voice was panicky in his ear, and a stab of guilt hit him that he wasn’t there with her.

Oliver straightened with his button-up shirt in his hand and said, as reassuringly as he could, “They’ll find him.”

“I know, I just…” He heard her swallow. “I wish you were here.”

“I’m on my way,” he promised.

His eyes swept around the room to see if he’d missed anything when he saw a flash of red on the floor next to the nightstand. He went over to it to see that it was the pack of red pens from Meghan’s purse. He picked it up, stared at it for a few seconds with a sort of sinking feeling, and then, scarcely knowing why, pocketed it.

He sighed. Back to Starling, then.

 

 

It took Felicity a good half an hour to get back to her hotel room after a very protracted walk of shame. Not that there was any shame in walking home after sex, because yay female sexuality, but it was definitely awkward; she had to take a taxi, only noticing that her dress was only half-zipped up ten minutes into the ride, and look an old lady in the eye after a condom fell out of her purse in her quest for her wallet. The first thing she did when she closed the door behind her was take off her shoes because _ow_. She slipped on the panda flats she kept right by the door, sighing. Goodbye, Vegas Felicity.

Felicity was positively relieved to go back to Starling. Vegas always…did things to her. Vegas was like this thick, flossy coat of over-the-top fakeness that she tried to scrub off, but it still soaked up under her fingernails, and this, combined with the house-shaking and completely-unnecessary fight she’d had with her mother, made her crave her quiet, and okay sometimes lonely, life back home. She was maybe not excited for, per say, but certainly comfortable with the days of fixing computers and the nights of Netflix marathons. The only alcohol would be the strict no-more-than-two-glasses-of-wine diet she usually followed. And there would be no one-night stands. She’d proved without a doubt that she couldn’t handle them.

She walked across to her closet and pulled out her suitcase. Her plane wasn’t until early morning, but she liked to be prepared. She was definitely not in the mood to go all the way to the airport and then find out that she’d forgotten her passport, not that she’d brought her passport, because domestic travel, but the point still stood. “Focus, Felicity,” she muttered to herself, and then went to go check the bathroom cabinets.

It wasn’t until she was fully packed that she flopped back on her bed and stared at the ceiling. _Ten minutes_ , she told herself. _You get ten minutes to mope, and then you’re going to get started on catching up on work_. Her stomach growled. _Okay, ten minutes, and then Big Belly Burger, and then work_ , she amended.

She moped for fifteen, but who was counting?

 

 

Oliver waited in the tiny airport, sipping a coffee. His pilot was running a little late, and Oliver had done no more than crack a smile at the panicky tone in his voice when he called to apologize. The old version of him would have called everyone to complain, from the airport management to his parents, but after five hellish years of wishing things would _stop_ happening around him, for some time to breathe, waiting was positively relaxing.

The waiting room of this particular airport was always well stocked with tabloids, he remembered, ego fodder for the idle rich, but he was used to ignoring those. Today, though, one of them caught his eye. “Oliver Queen Back to His Playboy Ways?” the cover demanded in angry black lettering. He snatched it off the table immediately, cringing even before he read the rest of the words. On the cover was a photo, taken as he and Meghan walked over to the Bellagio. They were kissing. Oliver’s lips tingled as he remembered. Thankfully you couldn’t see her face, just her blond curls, and the bottom of her gold dress, and her incredible legs. He shook his head before he continued down _that_ route. The article was super short and consisted mostly of questions. “What is Oliver Queen doing back in Vegas?” “Who is the blonde bombshell?” “Have five years shipwrecked on an island done nothing to change the trust-fund brat?”

He threw it back on the table, queasy, but there was also a ringing in his ears, an itching in his palms to punch something, anything, and thankfully his pilot arrived just then and he could push it to the back of his mind. First things first: Starling, Thea, Walter. He could think about Meghan later.

 

 

Honestly, Felicity was pretty proud of herself that she’d managed to hold off until after lunch before looking up Oliver/Jonas. She knew she’d promised not to, but he’d basically _asked_ her to by telling her his real first name, which was, by the way, a _much_ better name than Jonas, by like a thousand percent. Why else would he have told her, if he really didn’t want her to know? Besides, she wasn’t going to contact him, or tell anyone, or do anything more than just see who he was. She just had to know.

Felicity had always thought of Google as a close friend, the type of friend that could practically read her mind, so she was sure she’d find him fairly quickly, ten minutes at the most. She stared blankly at her tablet screen, the only thought in her mind, _You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Google_.

Because it had taken point five seconds to find out who she’d slept with last night. And that morning. Multiple times. Because apparently, when you typed in “Oliver,” the first search result was _Oliver Queen_ , and when you typed in “Oliver Jonas,” the first search result was _Oliver Jonas Queen_. Felicity put her fingers on her forehead, wondering if that would keep her head from literally exploding. Maybe if she typed in just “Jonas?” There were the Jonas brothers, she remembered hopefully. Maybe she’d slept with one of them? And then, the panic set in.

“Okay, Felicity,” she said aloud, her fingers twitching in front of her, itching to type something, hack something, _do_ something, make it so that somehow she was wrong, that she hadn’t slept with billionaire playboy Oliver Queen, that that wasn’t her Jonas’ face staring at her from Google Images. Well, not _her_ Jonas, obviously, because they barely knew each other, and besides, she always thought it was weird when people used possessives to talk about their significant others because you can’t _own_ people; what is this, the 19 th century? And now she’d just made a slavery joke, which was _not cool_ , and she wouldn’t have done that _ever_ except she was _freaking out_ because she’d slept with Oliver Queen. “Breathe,” she told herself.

“So the guy you slept with is a celebrity,” she continued. It was a little weird that she was talking aloud to herself in an otherwise empty hotel room, but it didn’t necessarily mean she was totally crazy. Probably just that she needed some friends outside of work, and there she was on another tangent. She needed to _focus_ so that she could process and move on. “Just…think about what this means for you. Me. Us. There is only one person here.” She exhaled and then put her fingers firmly back on the keyboard, both to do more research and to ground her, to prevent her from completely losing her mind. “Moving on. Research. Go.”

Felicity didn’t need to click on any links because everyone knew at least the basics about the Queen family. There was Robert, who had drowned; Moira, who was the snobby matriarch; Oliver, who had drowned-and-then-come-back-to-life; and Thea, who was the bratty teenager. They were larger than life, and probably insane, and had more money than maybe the US government. (Was that possible?)

Oliver was the one who was always in the news, usually for various misdemeanors. Felicity opened up his Wikipedia page and then winced. “Public indecency, public indecency again, drunk and disorderly conduct, assaulting an officer of the law?” She read closer and then quickly X-ed out of the window. Apparently he’d peed on a cop. Her head sank into her hands. “And I had sex with him!” Another thought hit her, making her, impossibly, more freaked out. “Oh God, what if he has STD’s?”

 

 

The flight was short, but long enough for Oliver to lose control of his mind as it returned, inevitably, to the tabloid. He couldn’t figure out exactly what about it he hated so much. Sure, there was the usual aversion to having his name in the news, plus his hatred of any mention of his party boy past, but it was more than that. He wasn’t just disgusted—he was angry. And not for himself, for Meghan.

It was stupid. It had been the very definition of a “playboy” move, a one-night stand in Vegas, no names, no strings attached. There was nothing in that tabloid that was anything but true. But Meghan… Oliver dimly registered the smile that crept on his face when he thought of her. She was something else. She had been the one to initiate the sex; she’d been the one who had insisted on no names. And he didn’t know her at all, didn’t even know her real name. But there had been a feeling that sprung up in Oliver’s chest when he looked at Meghan’s photo on the cover of the tabloid, a feeling of protectiveness. Oliver had grown used to the attention, grown beyond caring what bullshit the gossip pages spewed at him. Meghan, though, deserved better.

She would have figured out who he was by now. He’d given her enough clues. Hell, he’d given her his name, on an impulse that, even now, he couldn’t fully explain. Oliver dug his fingernails into the armrest and wondered what she would do about it. She was without a doubt smart enough to find him, if she wanted to. She could track him down, or shoot him an email, probably even find his number. He once again noted the smile on his face and didn’t bother stifling it. The thought of seeing her again made him smile, even just seeing her as a friend, grabbing a coffee, chatting. He missed chatting; nowadays every conversation he had was weighted, except the ones he’d had with her.

The smile dropped off his face, because there he’d gone and forgotten again, forgotten that she’d been the one to walk out, that she hadn’t reciprocated his confession and told him her name. She’d even pulled a Helena and thanked him for the sex, pretending there hadn’t been anything else there. And why _would_ she track him down now? Now, there was the tabloid to consider as well. Not to mention his name. Meghan hadn’t seemed like the kind of girl to want to get involved with Oliver Queen. No smart girl would. She could be anywhere in the world, and wherever she was, she held all the cards. There was nothing he could do; if there were a next move, she would have to make it.

But Oliver’s fingers found the pack of red pens in his pocket, and in spite of himself, in spite of logic and rationality and the years of pessimism that had hardened like a shell around him, he felt something stir inside him that he hadn’t felt in far too long: hope.

 

 

The hotel’s mini fridge only had chocolate ice cream, but it was okay for now. Felicity finished half the carton in one go, after which she hacked into Oliver Queen’s medical files, discovering that, as of his return from the island, he was completely STD free. She collapsed on the bed in relief, and then finished the rest of the ice cream anyway, because she deserved it.

Felicity felt a glimmer of pride. She was taking the news surprisingly well. She still hadn’t broken her rule of no-liquor-from-the-mini-bar, and if there were ever a moment to break that rule, it was now. Because he was _the_ billionaire playboy, and she was a dorky IT girl who hadn’t gotten laid in way too long. Maybe she was okay because from what she knew of Oliver, he was nothing like the media image of him. He was intense, and sad, and when she made him smile it was blinding and unexpected and beautiful and wow, Felicity, get a grip. The whole five-years-shipwrecked-on-an-island thing really had made a difference. Not to mention, now he had that beard and the close-cropped hair that really worked for him. And then Felicity’s mind further betrayed her by remembering the feel of that beard scratching between her thighs, and she had to fan herself a little.

But it was all over, and that was fine. Now she would go back to Starling like nothing happened, and she’d just move on. And that’s when Felicity froze, dropping the spoon back into the empty carton of ice cream and dropping the carton on the floor. Because, and she would have realized this sooner if she hadn’t been so busy panicking about everything else, Oliver Queen wasn’t just some billionaire; he was her boss. Well, her boss’s boss’s boss, or actually her boss’s boss’s boss’s stepson, but his family owned Queen Consolidated, of which she was a lowly employee, so she would almost definitely run into him, with her luck, and more importantly, _she’d slept with her boss_ (by accident).

And if after that realization Felicity chugged down three miniature bottles of Bacardi from the mini-bar, could anyone actually blame her?

 

 

The drive back home from the airport was tense; Diggle clearly wanted to talk, which was never good. Oliver pretended to sleep the whole way, feeling a little like a child. “I know you’re awake, Oliver,” said Diggle once, not sounding amused, but Oliver didn’t budge.

Thea ran to him as soon as he walked through the manor doors. “Thank God you’re back,” she said, before shoving him away. “Where _were_ you?”

Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, not looking forward to the inevitable argument. “Vegas,” he admitted eventually, when Thea’s expression had turned scarily like his mother’s.

“Ollie! What the hell?”

He gave her the easy smile he used to wear way back before the Gambit even though it felt wrong on his face now, hurt his cheeks. “I just needed a break, Speedy.”

Thea’s mouth fell agape, the shock and hurt flitting across her face, hardening into disgust and betrayal. It made Oliver want to break and tell her the truth, _all_ of the truth, and it physically hurt that he couldn’t. “A _break_? Walter is missing! You just fell off your motorcycle! And I _needed_ you, and instead you decided to go gamble and sleep with hookers?”

He hated to see that look on Thea’s face, that look that reminded him just how broken his baby sister had become. He exhaled and decided that some of the truth wouldn’t hurt, this time. “Diggle has a friend there who’s an expert at physical therapy and I thought it would help me with the…motorcycle accident.”

She softened immediately, and affection filled Oliver as he watched her shift instantly from fury to sympathy in a way that was just so _Thea_. “Does it hurt a lot?” she asked, reaching out to touch his arm carefully.

“It’s getting better,” Oliver lied. Sitting on a plane had done nothing to ease the soreness in his back.

She tugged him to the stairs. “Let’s go upstairs. Maybe you can talk to Mom and get her to leave her room.”

Oliver doubted he could get Moira Queen to do anything if she didn’t want to, but he let his sister lead him forward, surprisingly happy to be home.

He had a full three hours of peace to comfort his mother and sister with platitudes, trying to avoid making eye contact with Diggle. Three hours, and then Tommy Merlyn waltzed into the manor, Laurel under his arm.

“How are you holding up, Thea?” Tommy called out, concerned, and then stopped upon seeing Oliver. “Well, well, well. Look who’s back.”

Laurel raised her eyebrows in the way she always did before she lectured him about something. “How was Vegas, Ollie?”

Oliver opened his mouth, wondering how she knew, until he remembered the tabloid. _Oh fuck_.

“I had hoped your days of hooking up with every person with boobs that you come across was over.” Disappointment was etched all over her face, and Oliver felt…nothing. Nothing, but the usual, ever-present swirling of guilt. In fact, he hadn’t even spared her a thought in Vegas, not since he’d met Meghan.

Thea clapped her hands over her ears. “For the last time, I do _not_ want to hear about my brother’s sex life. Ever!”

Tommy slapped Oliver’s back cheerfully. “Cut him a break, Laurel. His last girlfriend turned out to be a psycho, and he fell off his motorcycle. Dude needed to get laid.”

“ _Tommy Merlyn I swear to God_ ,” yelled Thea and then stomped away, calling, “I’m going to go check on Mom again,” over her shoulder.

“Thanks, Tommy,” said Oliver, the smile easy on his face. Tommy and Thea were among the few people who could do that.

“No problem, Ollie. I will always be your wingman. Even though I’m dating your ex-girlfriend, which will never not be awkward.”

At that Laurel smiled at Tommy in a way she’d never smiled at Oliver, and Oliver found himself saying, “I don’t think it has to be awkward.” And when Laurel looked at him in surprise, he just smiled back, heart light, because he’d finally achieved the impossible and gotten over Laurel Lance.

After a little more chatting, Tommy left to hunt down Thea and Oliver found himself alone with Laurel. “I see things are going well with Tommy,” he said, out of lack of anything else to talk about.

“Yeah, they are,” she said cautiously, looking at him like he was insane, which maybe he was. Oliver nodded at her. Laurel stared at him for another moment, before she kept talking, perhaps grateful for the chance to unload. “I’m just afraid that maybe things are moving a bit too fast.”

“Well, if it means anything, you look really happy. Both of you,” he told her, a sense of peace settling over him. “You look happier than you ever were when we were together.”

Laurel gave him a short laugh, and then looked thoughtful. “You look happier too.”

“Vegas was good for me,” he said with a shrug, thinking, yet again, of Meghan. _Stop doing that_ , he told himself. _You’ll still never see her again_.

“Well, whatever it is,” said Laurel, breaking through his thoughts, “I’m happy for you.”

 “I’m happy for you too,” said Oliver sincerely.

Diggle cornered him when Tommy and Laurel finally left and Oliver, reluctantly, let him. “How are you feeling?” he asked without preamble.

“Like shit,” Oliver admitted, rolling his shoulder to work out the ache in his back.

Digg gave him a piercing look. “How are you feeling…emotionally?”

Oliver returned the look. “You’re not my therapist, Diggle.” Then he sighed, because in a lot of ways, Diggle sort of _was_ his therapist. “I feel a little bummed.”

“ _A little bummed_? Oliver, you got your ass handed to you.”

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me,” Oliver muttered. The one thing his trip to Vegas had accomplished was that he no longer saw the Other Archer looming over him every time he closed his eyes.

“I would understand if you’re slow to hood up again,” Diggle said, and Oliver winced and realized he’d barely thought about that either.

“I’m not ready,” he said, avoiding his bodyguard’s gaze. “I’m still recovering from my injuries.”

“Whatever, Oliver,” said Diggle, the frustration clear on his face. He started to walk away and then turned back to say, “When you want to talk about the real reason, just let me know.”

 

 

Felicity spent the entire flight back home hungover as hell. She snagged yet another cup of water from a hostess and did a Sudoku on her tablet, ignoring the guy hitting on her from the next seat.

“Wow, you’re really fast at that,” he said, looking over her shoulder as she finished the “Nightmare” level and moved on to the “Intricate.”

She hummed at him and continued, throat dry, head swimming. Honestly, he was nice enough, and she wouldn’t have minded the attention if it weren’t for the Oliver Queen situation. The _situation_ being that the random guy she’d hooked up with was actually a billionaire womanizer who, oh yeah, was also her boss.

When her flight landed, she dragged her suitcase all the way to the car park, her hangover worse than ever. _Well, that’s what happens when you go on a plane instead of sleeping off the alcohol._ She clambered into her Mini and lay in the backseat for an hour, not wanting to drive with a pounding headache.

When she could finally drive, Felicity wanted nothing more than to head home and nap for at least one full day, but she remembered at the last minute that she had no groceries at all, so, sighing, she pulled into a supermarket parking lot instead. She wandered through the aisles, dropping in the usual bread, milk, and eggs. When she passed the ice cream freezer, she looked longingly at the mint chip ice cream and then shook her head. “No,” she told herself firmly. She could get through this without eating her way through another carton.

She stood in line to checkout, looking idly at the racks of tabloids, and then froze. “Oliver Queen Back to His Playboy Ways?” And there, right on the cover, right on the tabloid that was _right there_ in the grocery store for anyone to stare at, was a blurry photo of her and Oliver kissing. She opened her mouth, and all that came out was, “Frack.” That was unsatisfying, so she tried again. “Fuck.” It wasn’t much better.

She picked up the tabloid and looked closer. Yep, yes that was a picture of her alright. That was the two of them, making out in the middle of the road. You couldn’t see her face, thankfully, but that was her dress, and her shoes, and her hair. “Fuck,” she said louder, and a woman with a toddler in her arms turned around in line and glared at her. She winced and mouthed, “Sorry.”

Just then her phone rang, because her mother had always had eerie timing. She answered reluctantly, and her “Hello?” was drowned out by a long, loud screech. Felicity cringed. “Mom?”

“I saw the news! Felicity, baby, why didn’t you tell me you seduced Oliver Queen?”

“It’s not…me,” Felicity tried weakly, trying to ignore the stares from the other people in line. _Please, please, move faster_.

“I know that dress and those shoes, baby girl! Remember I told you when I saw them in a suitcase that you could snag a real man with shoes like that? Did you see what the tabloids called you? A ‘blonde bombshell.’ Bombshell, Felicity! Like Marilyn or Scarlett Johansson. Forget everything I said, darling. You can sit in front of computers as long as you like. It’s fine with me. You don’t even need a social life. Just keep sleeping with billionaires and you’ll get far in life.”

Felicity shoved the tabloid back on the rack and left the grocery line, hissing “Mom…Mom…” until her mother finally stopped talking. She pushed her cart into the empty canned food aisle and said, “I didn’t _snag_ anyone.”

“Well, obviously. Oliver Queen is a man whore, after all.”

“ _Mom_!”

“Well he is! But this is a step in the right direction, Felicity! I knew there was still some Vegas in you.”

“It was a mistake,” said Felicity dully, because the more her mother approved of something, the more Felicity tended to hate it. “I didn’t even know who he was, okay? Otherwise I wouldn’t have done it.”

“You didn’t recognize _Oliver Queen_? See, I told you to read more tabloids! It’s culture, baby girl.”

“Right, culture,” Felicity muttered. She’d unconsciously pushed the cart all the way to the freezer section, so of course she had to add in a carton of mint chip or two. It was destiny. And as her mother chattered in her ear about tabloids and billionaires, Felicity finally accepted that, as great as the sex had been, it had undoubtedly meant more to her than it had to Oliver Queen.

 

 

Oliver spent the next month doing nothing more than training, to Diggle’s disapproval. Diggle kept talking about how the city needed him, but Oliver just wasn’t ready. It had been many years since he’d last been afraid of dying. He still didn’t dread it, didn’t fear it. But he felt more tied down to life than he’d felt since before the Gambit.

He felt a little ashamed, to be sure, of telling Laurel to handle the case of a murdered fireman herself, but he couldn’t keep going out there and throw everything away, not when Thea and his mother needed him this much. Walter was still missing, and both he and Diggle agreed he must be gone, and, in Oliver’s mind, it was better for everyone if he stayed with his family instead of hooding up.

He tried to explain this all to Diggle, to explain how now, he _wanted_ to live, but all Diggle said was, “You can stare down death with something to live for or not. Something to live for is better.” It sounded so simple when Digg said it, but to live _for_ something, that required hope, and that was something Oliver was quickly running out of. Oliver put on the hood again; of course he did. At this point it seemed inevitable. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever again be able to run straight into death without looking back, but he would still do what he had to do.

When he was finished saving the city for the day, when he was back in his bedroom, sitting wearily on the edge of his bed, he let himself think about hope. A month ago, hope had blazed inside him, tied inexplicably to Meghan, the girl he’d been so stupidly sure he’d see again, and now that it had been weeks and weeks and that hope had dimmed. It was stupid, his fixation on that girl. He’d had plenty of one-night stands before, more than he could count, really. And here he was, still thinking about it a month later. It was her company he missed more than the sex, the chatting and smiling. He needed that now. Oliver stood up and walked over to Thea’s room, knocking hesitantly on the door. “Speedy? You in there?”

The door opened, and Thea peered out, wearing leggings and a sweatshirt and looking a lot like the preteen girl she’d been when he’d been shipwrecked. “Ollie?” she said, sounding confused.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in her room. She used to throw pillows and stuffed animals at him when he tried to sneak in. But now, she opened the door for him and he sat at the foot of her bed while she stayed standing, considering him. “I was just wondering if you wanted to talk,” Oliver explained.

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” Thea asked, crossing her arms, but she smiled in spite of herself. “What do you want to talk about? Walter? Or how weird it is that Mom’s suddenly okay enough to be CEO?”

“None of that,” said Oliver emphatically. “I just wanted to…talk.”

Thea gaped at him, but eventually pulled out a deck of cards, and by the time Oliver was back in his own room it was past midnight. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

 

 

Felicity spent the month after the Vegas incident (that’s what she called it now, the “Vegas incident”) buried in work. Walter was missing, which was awful because she’d really, really liked him. And because she sometimes felt like she was the only one who knew why. It was the notebook, the notebook that burned a hole in her purse every day because she was too afraid to leave it anywhere where someone could find it. The notebook that had something to do with the vigilante. She was _not_ the right person to get involved in this. But Walter’s disappearance meant all hands on deck, all the time. She got a tiny promotion (with no raise, thank you very much) and twice the workload. But she still made time to look into Tempest, because who else would?

She also spent the next month avoiding Oliver Queen. Not that there was any chance of them meeting. She’d asked one of her coworkers if he ever came by Queen Consolidated, and he’d rolled his eyes at her as if she were some kind of groupie before telling her that Oliver Queen probably wasn’t even aware that his family owned a company.

That had made her feel better, sort of, but now his mother was the CEO (the mother that was probably plotting something), so maybe he would come and visit, and she basically walked around the office with her eyes darting all around as if she were one spilled coffee from a nervous breakdown. And sometimes, she felt like she was.

The only good news was that she’d stayed out of the news after her one tabloid claim-to-fame. But the bad news was that he just would not leave her mind. His name was everywhere: on TV, on tabloids, on the building where she worked. And she couldn’t stop thinking about him, curled up next to her in bed, sipping coffee from an armchair, just looking at her with a smile on her face. Felicity had never thought of herself as a sap, but here she was, stupid enough to have a crush on a guy she’d had a one-night stand with, to like him enough to think about him a full month later.

 

 

Oliver had a lot of regrets about the way he’d started off the vigilante business, but one of the biggest ones was not getting any IT help. The way Meghan had described it, if he found the right IT person, he could get straight through encryptions, track down anyone he needed to find. He’d wasted so much time in the past on stakeouts and intimidation. If he’d found someone to break into Floyd Lawton’s bullet-ridden laptop, for instance, he wouldn’t have had to stalk him for three consecutive nights, and he might have saved some more lives.

Now, Oliver stared at the thumb drive he’d stolen from Ted Gaynor and knew that the only way in was to get outside help. He and Diggle had just fought about trust; Digg trusted Gaynor despite his inclusion in the list, and Oliver did not trust him at all. That was why he needed to find someone trustworthy to crack the drive, and that was why he couldn’t ask Diggle for help, not this time. Good thing his family owned a company with a large IT department.

Oliver’s first goal when entering Queen Consolidated was to avoid his mother, not wanting to have to explain himself. He failed that goal instantly, and tried not to wince when he heard his name from behind him. “Mom,” he said, turning around to find her standing there, Walter’s EA at her side.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him. “I hope you’re here to familiarize yourself with the company.”

Oliver made himself laugh, trying not to show how tense he was. “No. I’m actually trying to find an IT person; someone trustworthy.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What’s the problem?”

“I broke my phone,” he said, trying out that foot-shuffling thing he used to do whenever he messed up in his pre-island days.

His mother smiled indulgently. “Well, Paula, any suggestions?” she asked, turning to Walter’s EA.

“Mr. Steele always used to go to Felicity Smoak,” the woman said, and then began digging in her purse. “Actually, I carry around her business card because everyone needs them.” She handed one over. “There you go, Mr. Queen,” she finished, voice slightly breathy, and Oliver flashed her his most charming grin.

He promised his mother he’d meet her for lunch before heading off to the IT department. He trusted Walter’s judgment; this Felicity Smoak would doubtless be trustworthy enough. He would give her some of that flirty charm he’d perfected as a teenager and she would break through the encryption for him, not suspecting a thing. Piece of cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehe sorry about the cliffhanger (not really). And I definitely added more Queen sibling feels than were strictly necessary, but what can I say? I love Thea with all my heart and soul.
> 
> Please leave comments! I love you (yes, you specifically).
> 
> -Jo


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> Thanks again for being such a spectacular audience. I couldn't ask for anything more, seriously. You guys are the best.
> 
> I think this is a fun chapter. It was certainly fun to write. Let me know what you think! I love reading your comments. They make me smile stupidly in public places while everyone looks at me like I'm insane. 
> 
> Hope you have a happy hellatus!
> 
> -Jo

It took Oliver absolutely forever to find Felicity Smoak’s office. He cursed as he walked past the same copy machine twice. Apparently his sense of direction wasn’t honed enough after his years on Lian Yu to navigate the labyrinth that was the IT department. There were dozens of other employees, if not more. Oliver scanned the floor almost automatically, taking comfort in the fact that even if it didn’t work out with Felicity Smoak he had no end of other options.

He finally went to the right place. It was tucked between several others, dark, door open, and he walked slowly in, flash drive in his hand, to see a woman at her desk, bent over her tablet. His eyes took her in in one split second before he backed out the door twice as fast as he came in, spinning away from her sight line. He came to a rest, leaning against the wall, breath uneven, heart pounding like he’d just chased down a one-percenter.

It couldn’t be. There was no way.

Adrenaline coursed through him. He poked his head around the doorframe to take another look, just in case he was wrong, just in case wishful thinking had interfered with his senses. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a curly ponytail. She wore her glasses again, as well as a prim button-down. He couldn’t stop staring at her, his ears ringing. She didn’t look up from her tablet. He smiled a little as he remembered her tendency to phase out when she was working. She adjusted her glasses in that way of hers, pink mouth slightly open, and a flash of heat tore through Oliver and he could almost see her looking up at him, glasses on, hair in the same ponytail, lips around his cock. _Oh boy_. He shook his head to try to clear it before he popped a boner in the middle of the Queen Consolidated IT department, and then a grin split his face. Somehow, she’d wandered into his life once again, the girl who’d lived in the back of his mind for over a month now, Meghan. He shook his head. Not Meghan. _Felicity_. His mouth ached to taste the new name, but she would hear him, and it would break the spell.

Oliver retreated from her office again. He had to plan, he thought frantically. Had to decide what to say. Would he just walk in and say her name, wait for her to respond? Which name should he say? He paced in tiny circles, ignoring the stares of the few people that could see him.

There were things to consider, like whether he should pretend nothing had happened and wait for her to mention it, or if he should get the awkwardness out of the way by kissing her right away. He shook his head. That was ridiculous. But if he walked in with flowers, maybe it would break the ice and make kissing her a natural next step. Oliver’s brain was a wild mess, but somehow all his thoughts just came back to kissing her. He supposed he could work kissing into the encounter somehow, if he tried, and Oliver was nothing if not a trier.

He kept pacing, kept thinking, giddy and dizzy and _hopeful_ like he hadn’t been in a month…until it finally hit him. It took him a full minute to realize what he should have figured out from the beginning, a full minute where the smile didn’t leave his face, only to slip off as his stomach dropped. She knew, had to know who he was. She worked in his family company, after all. Even in the unlikely chance she truly hadn’t recognized him in Vegas, there was no way she didn’t know who he was now. And she hadn’t done anything to contact him. There was silence, radio silence, for a full month and then some. His heart stopped pounding, almost stopped beating, as it sunk into him that she had no interest in ever seeing him again.

If he walked in there now, if he rammed himself back into her life despite her making it clear she was done after that one night, he would accomplish nothing more than making it painful and awkward for both of them, and the look on her face might just shatter everything inside him that was still whole. Disappointment rose bitter in his throat, and he walked slowly away from her office, not letting himself look back.

The flash drive felt heavy in his palm as he wandered aimlessly around the IT department, stopping blindly in front of a cubicle. He stood there, waiting for its occupant, a man with shaggy hair and a poorly trimmed beard, to notice him.

The man glanced up and did a double take. “Mr. Queen,” he gasped out. “Can I help you?”

Oliver wondered briefly how to explain the encrypted drive, whether or not to come up with a cover story, but he wasn’t in the mood. There was no need to. This man would have to do whatever Oliver asked—it was Oliver’s name on the building, after all. “I need this decrypted,” he said shortly, handing over the drive.

“Oh…kay,” said the man slowly, taking it and sticking it into the computer. Oliver watched closely as a string of code popped up on the screen, and the man’s eyes widened. He shifted nervously in his seat.

“Something wrong?” Oliver asked, trying to keep his voice pleasant.

“Not wrong, necessarily,” said the man nervously. “It’s just that this is military-grade.”

“My friend gave it to me,” said Oliver vaguely, just wanting him to get it over with so he could get out of there and process the whole Meghan-Felicity situation.

The man didn’t seem to care. He just blinked, looking as utterly lost as Oliver would have felt if he’d tried to crack it himself. “People usually don’t come to me for this kind of stuff,” he admitted.

“Then whom do they go to?” Oliver asked with a sigh, knowing in his gut what the answer would be.

“Felicity Smoak,” was the prompt reply. “Have you gone to see her yet? Her office is right—“

Oliver looked away. “Yeah, I went there. She seemed busy.”

“Really? Because Felicity loves this kind of thing. She does it for fun, even,” the man said, already pulling the drive out of his computer and handing it back to Oliver, who took it reluctantly.

“Is there anyone else who can decrypt this?”

The man blinked some more, as if the question were completely beyond him. “Other than Felicity?”

Oliver just shook his head. “Never mind.” He turned and walked away, leaving the man still sweating nervously. He couldn’t tell whether the churning from his stomach was excitement or dread at seeing Felicity again. It was for business, he reminded himself. It was the necessary next step. And as long as he didn’t go see her as Oliver Queen, everything would be fine.

 

 

It had been a quiet day at work. Too quiet, actually. There had only been one broken computer (some moron had spilt a latte on it), and, out of lack of anything better to do, she’d updated the security for the fourth time that week and then stared at the list of names from the notebook that had gotten Walter killed. She was exhausted anyway on her way back home, but that might have had more to do with her _Buffy_ marathon the previous night that had led to her falling asleep on her lumpy couch. Work might have been boring and unproductive, but that was as good a reason as any to finish the last four episodes of Season 5, maybe with a nice glass of red. She definitely deserved it, Felicity told herself firmly as she pulled up next to the curb. She deserved it for not thinking about Oliver Queen once that entire day, except whoops, she technically just did.

Felicity unlocked her front door while definitely _not_ thinking about Oliver’s delicious abs, and tried to switch on the lights to find they were blown out. “Ugh, what now?” she muttered, dumping her purse on the nearest surface and heading straight for the fuse box.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said a downright terrifying voice from behind her, and she spun around and screamed a little, which wasn’t at all embarrassing because that was a totally acceptable reaction to have to the fact that there was _someone in her house_ , and that someone had a scary voice, and maybe he wore slightly stupid-looking green leather, but still, scary, and oh God, the _Starling City vigilante_ was in her house.

“Stupid-looking?”

“I mean it’s fine if you’re into green leather. I just don’t happen to have that kink. Not that I’d judge you if you did. I mean, obviously not judging here because, you could, you know, put an arrow in me! Or a bunch of arrows, if you were so inclined.” It didn’t even feel like she was talking. Her mouth was just slightly open, and words were spewing out all over the place like a hose. A hose of words. “Three, two, one,” Felicity finished, or at least she hoped she was finished. _Please, be finished_.

The vigilante was tilting his head and…smiling? Was he _smiling_?

“This is ridiculous,” Felicity said aloud. “What are you doing here? Have I failed this city or something? Because I swear I haven’t. I make a pretty average income, and I do all my taxes, and sometimes I volunteer at a soup kitchen. Well I haven’t in a long time, but I swear I’ve been meaning to do it—“

“ _Felicity_.”

“How do you know my name?” she squeaked. And the squeak was also an acceptable reaction because the big, bad scary vigilante was _in her house_ and _knew her name_.

He didn’t answer, just said, “I need you to decrypt this,” pulling a flash drive out of his pocket.

She blinked. _What_?

He just kept holding out the drive like he expected her to just take it from him and get straight to work.

“No!” she blurted out.

“What,” he said, his voice somehow dropping even lower.

Felicity straightened her spine, because he was tall and she was short, and she really wished she’d worn heels instead of her panda flats. “I said no,” she said, voice stronger, because this was _completely insane_. She braced herself, half-prepared for him to get in her face and try to get her to change her mind, which would _never_ happen because, “You _kill_ people,” she continued, proud of the conviction in her voice. “I’m not willing to help you do that.” He stared at her for a long moment without saying anything, and suddenly a wave of nerves hit her as she eyed the bow in his hand. “I would also appreciate you not putting anything in me.” The man in front of her made a sort of choking noise and she realized what she had done. “By ‘anything’ I mean pointy things. Arrows! I mean arrows!”

Then the vigilante did something even more shocking than turning up randomly in her apartment for no reason: He pulled a chair from the dining table, moved it carefully into the shadows, and sat down. “Felicity,” he said slowly, as reassuringly as was possible with that scary voice. “Would it help if I told you that I am positive that the person from whom I got this flash drive is hurting this city?”

Felicity gaped at him because out of all the things he could have done, trying to explain himself to her the most unexpected. “You’re positive?” she probed, because he had hesitated.

“I am…pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure and positive do not at all mean the same things,” she pointed out.

“Well if you decrypt this for me, I can find out,” he said tightly.

She didn’t move.

“Felicity,” he said again, and she could feel his eyes on her even though she couldn’t make out any of his face. “I need you. There could be lives at stake.”

Felicity wasn’t the type to give up her morals or change her mind on a whim, and being an accessory to murder wasn’t exactly part of her five-year plan. But on the other hand, he wasn’t anything like what she’d expected. She’d expected intense and harsh and terrifying, and she could see him being those things, but he was also thoughtful and careful and surprisingly gentle. All this time people talked about the vigilante like he was a walking green suit, but Felicity felt, maybe naively, like she could see was the man beneath the leather (though she also saw the leather because that was over-the-top and hard to miss). So she held out her hand, palm up, and he dropped the flash drive in, shoulders slumped with relief.

She put the drive in her laptop looked over the lines of code, her mind already dropping into hacking mode, no room left for all the doubts of what she was doing or the remnants of the unease of having the vigilante pay her a house call. “This is a military-grade cryptograph,” she said, and then she could feel him by her shoulder, a big solid block of muscle and leather.

“So it’s definitely hiding something,” he said, and she looked up at him to see all of his face but his chin obscured by his hood. _How did he even do that? How was that even physically possible?_

“Blackhawk Security Group?” she asked him, and he nodded. She went back to the laptop, and he stayed where he was, distractingly close. Felicity sighed after a couple more minutes of working, turning again to the vigilante. “This is going to take a few hours.”

He nodded but didn’t move.

She rubbed her forehead because she had no idea that morning that she was going to have to politely kick the Starling City vigilante out of her house later that day, and it was honestly more than she could handle without a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. “I’ll give you the information in a few hours,” she repeated pointedly.

This seemed to spur him into action and he fished a burner phone out of his pocket and handed it carefully to her, snatching his glove-clad hands back when their fingers touched. “Call me,” he said shortly and then walked to her living room window, which she only now realized was wide open.

“You know I have a door,” said Felicity drily, but watched with interest as he easily shot a grappling hook out the window, and then stood carelessly on the ledge, one foot dangling over nowhere, bow hooked around the line.

“See you soon, Felicity,” said the vigilante, which, bizarrely, sounded nothing like a threat.

“See you,” she said weakly.

He stepped out and swung away and Felicity headed right for the fridge and reached past the mint chip to grab a Cherry Garcia. She’d had enough of green things for one day.

 

 

It was strange being around her again. She’d been in his head for so long that he thought he’d misremembered her, built her up in his mind until she was almost a talisman, the way he’d misremembered Laurel. But there she was, in her cute, colorful apartment, just as strong and adorable and _sparkling_ as she was in his memories. It was a kick just being around her, even when he was under the hood, even when she had no idea who he was. She talked with her hands. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed that last time.

Just then, the phone rang and Oliver snatched it up off the table, smiling reflexively. “What did you get?”

“You were right about the drive. It contains plans to rob armored cars with grenade launchers and tear gas,” she said matter-of-factly.

He grew serious again. “Go on.”

“Someone from Blackhawk was using their system to store detailed routes and schedules for each of the city’s seven major armored car carriers, including the three that have already been hit. This directory should allow you to predict the location of the next heist.”

“I’m on my way,” said Oliver immediately. He supposed she could just forward him the information, but it would be better just to get it from her directly, he told himself, and this had nothing to do with the fact that he wanted to see her again. It was just more practical.

She’d left the window open, and he climbed in, a little uneasy at the lack of security. She was standing there, watching him, the lights off already, flash drive in her hands. “You neglected to turn the lights back on last time,” she said accusingly, and he turned on his voice modulator before he responded.

“I figured you could handle it,” Oliver said, holding the bottle of wine he’d picked up from the Queen family cellar behind his back, suddenly wondering if this was a good idea.

She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah but it’s kind of rude…I said to the vigilante who goes around shooting people with arrows.”

Oliver bit his lip to keep himself from chuckling.

She looked at him for a long moment, and then shook her head. “But you’re here for the drive, so here it is.” She stretched her hand out, and Oliver took it carefully. “The next armored car route is in 40 minutes, so you should probably hurry and, you, know,” she mimed shooting an arrow, “get justice and stuff.”

“Right,” said Oliver and then pulled the wine bottle out from behind him. “Take it. It’s a thank you, for helping me.”

Felicity stared at it, and her mouth dropped open, wide and cartoonish. “This is a Lafite Rothschild 1982,” she whispered.

“Is that okay?” Oliver asked her, weirdly nervous.

“I love red wine,” she said, eyes shining. _Yes, he had remembered_. She reached for it, and then she hesitated. “Did you steal this?”

His mouth was suddenly dry, because there was no safe answer to that question. “Maybe I just happen to have wine lying around,” he said finally, and she just gave him this look, like she could _see_ him.

“So is that what the vigilante does now? Bribe people instead of threatening them?” Felicity asked looking skeptical, scarcely seeming to notice that she’d already taken the bottle of wine from him, holding it in her arms like a baby.

“You don’t have to keep the wine, Felicity,” he said, smiling as he saw her cradle it closer.

“Oh, I’m keeping the wine,” she said firmly. “But don’t think that means I’m going to help you in the future. I just happen to think this was a good cause.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” he said, but a flicker of disappointment passed through him anyway. He sighed because he had to leave, had another night of throwing punches and crossing off names even though in that moment all he wanted to do was sit down on Felicity Smoak’s couch and share a bottle of wine with her. _And then what do you think you’ll do next,_ he asked himself mockingly, _sleep on her bed, make her pancakes, and then zipline out the window_? Sometimes it was difficult to remember that their lives could never touch without the hood separating them. “I have to go,” he said gruffly. “Thank you, again.”

He turned to the window, hearing a quiet “Good luck” at his back.

 

 

Felicity liked to think of her life as fairly average. And that’s how she liked it. It was nice to know that at the end of the day, she could come home and just be…ordinary. Invisible. Sure, it was frustrating at work when her supervisor took credit for her genius coding, but there was something comforting about the fact that the most important thing she’d ever do was revamp company security.

She’d used to want to rule the world with a keyboard, or at least that’s what Cooper had called it. There was a tiny smile on her face as she remembered his intense ramblings about their talent, their ingenuity, what they could accomplish, what they _deserved_. There used to be late nights with six packs of Pepsi and energy bars as they hacked and coded for their lives, high on their own brilliance, not knowing what they were risking, not knowing what they could lose. And her smile slipped away as her mind moved on to why she couldn’t ever do anything of that scale again. That part of her was dead now, dead along with her first love. Or so she’d thought.

The vigilante had singled her out. She still had no idea how, or why, or why she was now standing in the kitchen with a two thousand dollar bottle of wine, wondering if she’d ever have the balls to open it. He’d come to her for help, and she’d done it, and the world hadn’t fallen apart yet. She still had her doubts; she’d read the news, seen the violence he could wreak. Felicity Smoak was not a saint, but she didn’t think she’d ever be able to do what he did, though she was on her way to understanding why he felt the need to do it. Yet despite all this, despite her qualms and the breaking-and-entering and the vigilante-voice, she’d agreed to help him, and she felt… _proud_. If he used what she’d found him to stop an armored car heist, prevent lives from being lost and livelihoods being destroyed, it would be more than she’d really accomplished in the last three years at Queen Consolidated.

Felicity carefully put the bottle of gorgeous wine at the very back of the cabinet, for the right time, and then poured herself some box wine, settling down with the List That Got Walter Killed because there was no way she could possibly sleep now.

 

 

The next couple of days were long, long and exhausting. Thea’s birthday party was an unmitigated disaster, and now she was in the hospital after getting into a car accident. But at least they’d stopped the heists and crossed another name off the list, this one permanently. Visiting hours weren’t until the next morning, and his mother had gone to bed with a headache, so Oliver worked off his concern for Thea by getting his ass kicked by Diggle in the Foundry.

“You’re really off your game,” Digg observed.

“I am aware,” said Oliver through his teeth, picking himself off the ground. “I am a bit distracted by the fact that my sister got into a car accident on her birthday.”

His partner nodded, and they started sparring again, Oliver quickly gaining ground, until suddenly Digg said, “I’ve been meaning to ask, how did you get that drive decrypted in the first place?”

And suddenly Oliver was on the ground on his ass again. He scrambled to his feet, searching for what to tell him, when he saw the knowing look on the other man’s face. “How did you…” Oliver started to say, when Digg tossed him his phone.

“Looked at the recent contacts.”

Oliver looked away, walking off the mat and pulling on a shirt. “Felicity is really good at IT stuff,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.

“Oh, so you went up to her and used your usual playboy tricks to get her to agree to help you?” Oliver frowned and tried to argue, but Digg just kept going. “No, you didn’t, because that is the phone you use to contact Lance.” He gave him one of his piercing looks. “You’ve been handing out those burners like they’re Halloween candy.”

“I don’t understand why you have a problem with it,” Oliver muttered, grabbing a towel and mopping the sweat off his face, still avoiding eye contact with Digg, afraid of what the older man might see.

“Because I always have a problem when you do stupid things, stupid things like visiting people as the Hood.” He shook his head. “What were you thinking?”

“I’ve visited Laurel before,” Oliver reminded him.

Digg rolled his eyes. “Okay, so you’ve always done stupid things. But this time you had other options.”

“I didn’t have other options,” Oliver said defensively. “I didn’t have another choice, Diggle. There is no one else in the IT department who can do what Felicity does.”

“And you couldn’t have visited this Felicity as Oliver Queen?”

Oliver hesitated.

Digg hissed out a breath and gave him another one of those looks. “So she knows you, then?”

Oliver looked at the ceiling, and then at the floor, but no answers lay on either surface. “I thought it was best not to—“

“Did you sleep with her, Oliver?”

He opened his mouth to disagree, when he remembered that Digg was, in fact, correct, and closed it again.

Diggle shook his head again and picked up his own shirt in silence, and just when Oliver thought the subject might finally be over, said, “Why do I even ask at this point?”

“Look,” said Oliver, because not using Felicity’s help was _not an option_ , “we can trust her. I’m sure of it.”

“Can we? Can we, Oliver?” Diggle said, sounding a little angry now. “Because that is what you said about Helena. And remember how that turned—“

“I’m not,” Oliver interrupted forcefully, “going to tell her who I am.” The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth. “Ever.” Diggle still looked unconvinced, but Oliver was done talking about Felicity. He trusted her, and that had to be enough for both of them. “I have to go home, wait with my mother until they let us see Thea,” he muttered, and walked out of the basement, feeling Diggle’s disapproving eyes on his back.

 

 

The Queens were on the news again. Felicity sat in the lounge drinking her third cup of coffee of the day, trying to ignore the TV blaring in a corner.

“Thea Queen, who recently turned eighteen, drove her car into a tree while leaving her own birthday party. Some viewers may recall that her older brother Oliver Queen, who recently returned from the dead, crashed the late Robert Queen’s Maserati under similar circumstances.”

Felicity found herself reacting to the news as she wondered how Oliver was coping with his little sister in the hospital, and then she reminded herself that she had no reason to care, that no matter what kind of connection she’d deluded herself into feeling, they were strangers. Apparently, even the unexpected addition of the vigilante into her life, she still couldn’t get Oliver Queen out of her head.

Maybe she’d been watching too many rom coms, but Felicity had this new fantasy (well, not a _fantasy_ fantasy, well, okay, a bit of that too) of running into him, at work or at a coffee shop or the grocery store (did billionaires go to grocery stores?), and she would be all awkward and flustered, as per usual, and he’d say something cheesy like, “I thought I’d never see you again,” and then sweep her off her feet, and then there would be tons of making out, and maybe some more mind-blowing oral, if she was lucky. Because he didn’t know that she lived in Starling yet, so maybe every one of her fears and insecurities was wrong, maybe he thought about her sometimes too. Felicity smiled a little, because she could just see the relieved look on his face, the hesitant uptick of his lips, that melty gaze he’d turned on her sometimes that made her feel _adored_. Weird word to use about a one-night stand, she knew. And she knew she shouldn’t let herself hope, but everything that had happened with the vigilante had made her feel like change was coming, that her life could be something _more_.

“…an encrypted drive and I turned totally red because I don’t know how to do that! And he just looked at me like I was something he found on the bottom of his rich boy shoes.”

Felicity turned her head to see a group of her coworkers walking in, Peter at the center, talking loudly about something. Peter looked over at her and then pointed dramatically at her, saying, “And there is the girl who made me humiliate myself in front of Oliver Queen.”

It felt like every internal organ in her body just dropped out, and then suddenly they were back, and her heart was hammering so hard she was half afraid she would pass out on the spot. “What?”

“Don’t look so horrified,” Chelsea said with an eye roll. “He’s just being dramatic.”

“What happened?” Felicity asked, trying to keep her voice level.

“Well, you turned Oliver Queen away, and he came to me, and I had to look him in the eye and tell him I was completely useless,” said Peter with a groan.

“Turned him away?” Felicity’s voice sounded strange to her own ears.

Peter looked puzzled. “He said you were busy?”

Felicity stood up, her knees somehow holding out underneath her. “Hold on,” she muttered. “I’m just going to go…throw up.” She walked as fast as she could to the bathroom, barely noticing she was still holding her coffee. The roiling in her stomach faded pretty fast, thankfully, and she was left staring at her reflection, wondering why the confirmation of everything she’d been telling herself for the past month felt so much like heartbreak. She should have been prepared for this.

She let out a shaky breath. _Okay_ , she told herself. _So he knows you’re here. He’s seen you. He saw you and he ran away_. Well, was that really surprising? It was no different from how she was constantly on her toes, on the lookout for him so that she could avoid him. He’d done the same. They’d had a one-night stand; they weren’t married. It was totally acceptable for things to be awkward, for him to never want to see her again. That was _normal_ , and she’d been lying to herself this whole time, and she just had to move on, like she should have an entire month ago. She gave herself ninety seconds to cry a little, and when she came back out to her colleagues’ curious faces, she explained in a steady voice that she’d eaten something funny, and went back to her desk, telling herself that this time, she was finally done thinking about Oliver Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, now that I have officially made it angstier than ever, I'm gonna follow with an apology because the next chapter is without a doubt going to take me at least a week. It's midterm season, folks, which means I have to go be a real person for a bit. Don't worry, though, I will get this done as soon as possible. I just don't feel like failing out of college :)
> 
> Thanks for being the best human beings I've never met!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Sorry it's been so long. Just a mixture of being super duper busy and suffering through a serious case of writer's block. Hope you like this chapter. I had some issues with it, but I don't it's too terrible. As usual, tell me what you think! Have a fantastic day :)

Oliver hated to think of who he’d been before the Gambit went down. There was a detachment he felt when he remembered his old self, the carelessness with which he treated his life and the people in it. It sickened him to see Thea facing the same charges he had escaped so many times. She deserved better; she _was_ better. She had never been thoughtless like him. Oliver had done his best to waste the golden life he’d been given, but Thea had already been through so much.

Talking to Thea was like seeing double, the happy-go-lucky tomboy still superimposed in his mind over the angry young woman standing before him. Oliver wanted to wrap her up and hide her from the world, keep her safe and innocent and happy. He couldn’t do that, but he could do everything in his power to bring down the Count.

Digg pointed out over and over how risky his plan was, because this time he was risking Oliver Queen, not the Hood, as he met with the Count with nothing hiding his face. But it was for Thea. He felt nothing but certainty, even as the Count plunged the syringes into his chest. He’d almost died. It wasn’t the first time; looking into his future he could see countless more near deaths until the day he was dealt a more permanent one.

Now he was _literally_ seeing double. There were twin worried Diggles swimming lazily before his eyes, and it was all he could do to stay on his feet as he navigated the police and his mother and Thea. It was almost more than he could take. He loved his mother and his sister; they were two of the only people he could ever be sure about. But now, when there was God knows what poison still tearing through him, the lies and secrets and drama were too much. It could never be simple in the Queen family, and at this moment, Oliver craved simple.

Oliver collapsed on the stairs. It would have been a moment of shame, of panic, but all he felt was resignation. He would keep going; he _had_ to keep going. So long as his legs could carry him, and even if they couldn’t, Oliver would save his sister.

“I’m fine,” Oliver brushed off Diggle’s hand without looking at him.

“Clearly, fine means something different to you than it does to me,” his bodyguard said wryly.

Oliver sat up slowly, watching the world spin in circles. “I will be fine,” he amended. He felt Diggle’s eyes boring into him, and forced himself to stand up, grabbing the banister briefly for support.

“We need to get you to a hospital.”

“No,” said Oliver firmly. “There is no time for that.”

His bodyguard gave him one of his patented looks.

Oliver started stubbornly up the stairs. “We just need to get the Vertigo analyzed.”

Diggle sighed and grabbed him by the elbow to help him. “How do you plan on doing that?” He had evidently given up on cautioning Oliver once more. Oliver was relieved at that. There was no point wasting time arguing. He would do what he had to do.

“Felicity,” Oliver grunted, taking a few shaky steps, ignoring his companion’s disapproving look.

“And how is Felicity going to be any help? Last I checked she’s a computer geek, not a chemist.”

Oliver turned around to shoot Diggle a glare. “You _checked_?”

“Well, since we’re trusting her, I figured I should know something about her. And it sure as hell didn’t say anything about chemistry in her resume.”

Oliver could find no response to that. His heart was pounding from the drugs and the stairs, or maybe from Felicity; he could not tell. “I don’t know anyone else who could help.”

Diggle shrugged. “Maybe that’s true. Maybe it isn’t. But Oliver, be careful. It’s risky to keep going to the same person, especially when you can barely stand up by yourself. She’s too smart to keep fooling like this.”

“I’m fine. And I’ll be careful,” said Oliver, but even he could tell he sounded unconvincing.

 

 

Every time Felicity cried over a boy she’d fill a bowl with microwave popcorn and work her way through the Star Wars series (the original trilogy, obviously). Those movies were surprisingly good to cry to; by the time she was halfway through _A New Hope_ she inevitably felt comfortable enough to dry off her tears and just watch the scenes she’d long ago memorized and slowly lull herself to sleep. Luke had just landed on Dagobah for the first time and her eyelids had just started to flicker shut when she heard footfalls behind her and almost fell off her sofa.

“In the name of all that is holy,” she yelled, clambering to her feet to see, surprise surprise, the vigilante. “Don’t you knock? Well, of course not, because you always climb through the window like a crazy person.”

He huffed out a laugh, and then said, his voice low and serious, “You need better security.”

“Yeah, or else someone dangerous might sneak into my apartment,” Felicity said sarcastically. “ _Oh wait_.”

She was surprised to see him swaying a little on his feet, his hooded head dropping even further. He put one hand out to grab the back of one of her chairs, and then, he said through gritted teeth, “Would you mind turning that down a bit?”

Felicity spun around to face the speakers through which R2D2 chirped and chattered as Luke wandered through the swampland. Felicity liked to have her volume turned up high. It filled up the space in her house, made it feel full. “Oh, sorry,” she found herself saying, though there was no need to. “I was just making myself feel less miserable.” She found the remote and hit mute. “Classic sci-fi does that for me.”

The vigilante turned to look at the TV, and Felicity was struck yet again by how weird all this was.

“Are you a Star Wars fan?” she asked, on a whim, because if they were going to keep pretending this was normal, then goddamn it, she would make small talk.

“Never seen it all the way through,” he admitted, his grip on the back of the chair tightening.

“Wow, you need to get on that,” Felicity said in amazement. “I have all the DVDs. You could borrow them…I guess.” She suppressed a grin at the thought of the vigilante sitting down with popcorn for a Star Wars marathon. “Do you have a couch in your lair?”

“I don’t have a lair,” he deadpanned.

“What do you call it then? A cave?” Felicity smirked.

“I…don’t call it anything.”

“I guess I’m not surprised. You don’t even call _yourself_ anything.” She wrinkled her nose. “Well the media calls you the Hood, but that’s a pretty stupid name if you ask me.” He didn’t respond, so she added sheepishly, “But you didn’t ask me, obviously.” Felicity stood behind her couch, waiting for the vigilante to tell her why he was there, but he made no move to explain himself, didn’t even move away from her chair. She stepped impulsively forward, and her hands twitched to reach for him until she had to put them behind her back and remind herself that the man in her apartment was a complete stranger, a _deadly_ stranger. “Are you okay?” she asked softly.

The hooded man looked as though he were struggling with himself, probably wondering what to tell her. “I just recovered from an overdose,” he said finally.

Her mouth dropped open. “Oh.”

“Vertigo, actually,” the vigilante continued, exhaling sharply. “It’s the new drug that’s sweeping through Starling City.”

Felicity gasped. “I heard about that. I heard Thea Queen took that and crashed her car and now they’re putting her on trial. Not that I know much about the Queen family,” she asked, doing her best not to think about Thea’s older brother. Oliver. Oh there she went.

The vigilante shifted at that, and said, “Right.”

“I mean, you probably aren’t too concerned about that because, hello, one-percenter, but it’s all over the news.” She frowned with concern then, because what the hell was he doing vigilante-ing when he could barely stand? “You shouldn’t be wearing that,” she said, wincing already. In her head it had sounded like a good way to phrase things, but out in the air it made her want to bury her head ostrich-style. “Not to imply that you should be out of it. I’m not asking you to take your clothes off.” She squeezed her eyes shut because maybe if she couldn’t see him in all his muscly leather glory she would stop saying stupid things. “I just mean you should be in a bed, not out kicking ass and stuff.”

From the little she could see of his face, he was smiling again. “I’m not kicking ass. I just came to ask you for another favor.” He hesitated and then pulled a syringe out of his pocket, holding it up so she could see it. “This contains Vertigo. I’m trying to find out what’s in it and where the guy that makes it is holed up. Could you please do a spectral analysis of the sample to find out exactly where in the city it’s made?”

Felicity couldn’t tell why he looked so tense, and then she supposed it was because of last time, because she’d disapproved of his killing, and wow, was it strange that she could make the Starling City vigilante nervous. She hadn’t quite come to peace with his methods yet, but she couldn’t say no to him when he stood anxiously in front of her, still shaky from an overdose, still determined to give everything up to save their city. Not when it was clear to her that this time, what he was doing, what she could help him do, _would_ make a difference. “Yeah sure,” she said, holding out her hand to take it from him.

He sighed in relief, taking a couple of steps forward to place it carefully in her open palm. “Thank you.”

Felicity hummed, watching him step quickly back, face tilted deliberately down. “And now you _need_ to get in bed.” She let out a frustrated growl. “Not _my_ bed. _A_ bed. _Any_ bed. I am on a roll today.”

He chuckled. “Okay, Felicity. Do you still have the phone?”

“Yep,” she said, fumbling around on the coffee table behind her until she felt her purse. She hooked the strap with her fingers and dangled it up as proof.

He nodded. “Good. Call me, when you have more information.”

She nodded, suddenly wondering how on earth she was going to analyze a sample of a dangerous narcotic when she didn’t even have a spectroscope. This is why she needed to _think things over_ before she agreed to help vigilantes with their chemistry problems.

He walked towards her window as usual, and she shook herself out of her stupor, calling after him, “Shouldn’t you take the front door, considering you can barely walk? Or will that cramp your style?”

The vigilante turned around and looked at her for a long moment. Then he gave her a tiny head shake as if he couldn’t believe she was real, and then spun abruptly and vaulted out the window, making her jump.

Felicity ran to the window and peered out, and there was no green smudge on the sidewalk, so she assumed he was okay. She breathed out, relieved. She would _not_ have wanted to explain that to the cops. The syringe was still in her hands, so she looked around her apartment before deciding to put it in the fridge, next to her milk. Another weird image in the list of weird images she’d seen today, chief among them the very smiley vigilante that had invaded her life. And then she had to smile too because the thought of him running around arrowing people with that goofy grin on his face was just precious. _Wow, Felicity, you_ need _to chill. The vigilante is_ not _cute._

She sank back onto the couch, picking up the almost-empty bowl of popcorn even though her visitor had effectively dispelled the last of the misery that hung over her these last few days. Doing something, even if the something was helping a big scary vigilante find the recipe for an even scarier drug, was turning out to be a better way to get over boys than marathoning movies and crying about it. Who knew? In the morning, she’d make a few calls to the QC lab, but for now, she turned on Star Wars again, idly speculating on how well Han Solo could pull off green leather.

 

 

Oliver didn’t go to bed like she’d asked. He stood on the fire escape one building over from Felicity’s, watching the light from the TV flicker in her window. Diggle would have called it creepy. He supposed it was. But it was what he needed. He had come to expect the peace and relief that washed over him every time he stood in her apartment. She was the light and joy and _everything_ missing from his life, everything he craved. It was all he could do not to burst back in there, hood down, explanations flying out of him until she understood who he was and what she meant to him.

It would be stupid of him, incredibly stupid. She could never know. He couldn’t go around telling people. He’d had this same urge with his mother, and Tommy, and Thea. But none of them could ever know. The closest Oliver could ever come to Felicity Smoak was standing on the fire escape of the building over, watching the light from her window, wishing desperately for more.

 

 

“It’s an energy drink,” said Felicity. She almost smacked herself in the forehead right after she said it because _what_?

Vincent looked at her like she was insane. “It’s a what?”

Felicity shrugged a shoulder and tried to look cute. “Yeah, it’s just something one of my bosses asked me to bring to you for a spectral analysis? He said it was an energy drink. It shouldn’t take too long. I just need you to figure out where in the city it was made? Please?” Vincent blinked at her, and she grinned threateningly at him. “Remember the parking ticket?”

He groaned. “When are you going to stop holding that over my head?”

“When you stop parking in the fire lane,” she said triumphantly, putting the syringe carefully on the table.

“Alright, alright,” he said with a sigh. “It should be done in a couple hours.”

She flashed him a smile and turned to leave.

“Felicity?”

“Yeah?” she asked, trying to hide her wince.

“Why is the energy drink in a syringe?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“I thought it would be easier. For you,” she said lamely, cursing her inability to lie. “I’d love to chat, Vince, but I have a meeting.” She walked away as purposefully as she could, hoping her friend didn’t care enough to figure out what the sample actually was. She did not want to have to explain why she had a syringe filled with Vertigo.

She got the results while she was sitting at her desk, staring yet again at the list of names Walter had left her with, as though prolonged eye contact with it would make her understand what it was for. The solvent used in the Vertigo sample was runoff water originating within a ten-block radius of where East Glades meets the bay. She called the vigilante immediately, first checking to see that there was no one within earshot.

“Hey,” he said, and she grimaced at the harsh ugly voice coming out of the phone. It was worse than that stupid voice modulator he used.

“Hi,” she said brightly.

“Talk to me.”

Felicity felt a buzz of energy, like she’d been helping him for ages, like they were a team. “I got the sample analyzed. It’s made from runoff water from the East Glades.”

“Okay.”

Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she pulled up a map of Starling. “Aha,” she muttered.

“What is it?”

She grinned in triumph. “I actually went above and beyond. If you handed out gold stars, or I guess green stars, which you probably don’t, I should get one.”

“Felicity,” he said meaningfully, but he sounded amused.

‘I figured out exactly where in the East Glades the water comes from. The only thing in the area is an abandoned juvenile detention center. I’m thinking abandoned equals good for drug dealers.”

“You think right,” he said.

“I’ll text you the address,” she suggested. She scribbled it down onto a notepad and then began to scrub her computer’s history, the phone tucked under her ear.

“That would be great.”

Felicity’s eyes fell on the list of names once more. It was a mystery she hadn’t solved in months, which was unheard of. She could tell it had something to do with the vigilante, since many of the names were people he’d gone after, and she’d thought before about how much easier it all would be if he could help her with the search. The longer she delayed, the less likely it was that they would find Walter with any life left in him.

When it came to people, Felicity went with her gut. She was usually right, or at least, she was rarely catastrophically wrong. And something told her she could trust the man in the green suit who sometimes popped by her apartment. The notebook weighed at her; she wasn’t equipped to deal with it by herself. It would be a relief to let someone in, especially when that someone was a hulking man with deadly hobbies.

“So it’s my turn to ask for a favor,” said Felicity hesitantly, opening her drawer a crack to peer at the notebook, wondering how Walter would react if he knew she was telling the vigilante his wife’s secret.

“What is it?” he asked immediately, his voice somehow soft even electronically deepened.

“I have something I need to show you,” she said tensely, fiddling with the drawer handle.

“What is it?” he repeated.

Felicity squeezed her eyes shut because she could feel a ramble coming on. “I need to show you. I can’t explain it. It’s sort of a big deal and I just…need a favor.”

“Okay,” he said without hesitation. “Do you need me to come by your place?”

She exhaled. “Yeah. After work today? Any time is fine. Whenever you’re not busy doing important vigilante things.”

“I’ll be there,” he promised, and Felicity sank back in her chair, already feeling lighter.

“Thanks,” she sighed.

“It’s nothing,” he said solemnly, and then he hung up with a click, because the vigilante was apparently opposed to saying “Bye,” which was sort of rude now that she thought about it.

It wasn’t quite time for her lunch break, but Felicity felt a surge of energy from the phone call and she technically had nothing to do, so she left for the break room, tablet tucked under her arm. The TV was on as always, and four of her coworkers were clustered around it, talking loudly. Felicity looked up and saw a blown up, blurry photo of Thea Queen’s face with the subheading, “Queen Heiress Escapes Justice Once Again.”

“This is bullshit,” Chuck whined loudly. “The Queen family works its magic again. Let’s see what would happen if I took Vertigo and crashed my car. Would I get mild disciplinary measures or would I get thrown in jail for a couple decades. I wonder.”

“Ugh, tell me about it,” Chelsea said with an eye roll Felicity could see from across the room. “Every time someone from that family gets arrested, charges are mysteriously dropped.”

Martha giggled. “Remember when Oliver,” she paused to insert a sigh and Chelsea rolled her eyes again, “got arrested cause they thought he was the Hood guy and he threw that awesome party?”

Felicity blinked twice. She’d forgotten that that had happened. Something itched at her suddenly, a nagging itch that felt a little like panic, and she shut it down before it grew.

Chuck snorted. “They’re a bunch of lucky bastards. The vigilante just _happened_ to catch the drug dealer just in time to take the heat off the girl. How convenient for the Queens. He’s probably working for them too, isn’t he.”

Felicity felt her heartbeat quicken and a tiny stray thought whizzed through her head that she did her best to ignore.

“Yeah, spoiled brats, all of them,” Chuck continued.

Felicity couldn’t help the small noise of dissent that slipped from her, and the four whipped around to look at her.

“You disagree, Smoak?” Peter demanded, crossing his arms.

“They’ve been through a lot, haven’t they?” she blurted out, barely understanding why she felt the need to defend the Queen family. “The boat sinking, the island, their dad dying. And now Walter’s gone too. I mean I’d be a little messed up too, if all that happened to me.”

“That’s a lot of loyalty for people you don’t even know,” said Chelsea, raising an eyebrow.

Felicity sputtered for a couple seconds before coming up with, “Well we work for _Queen_ Consolidated. We’ve all got to have some sort of loyalty otherwise we could maybe get fired and it is _not_ a hiring market right now.”

“Well from the little you saw of him you didn’t like Oliver Queen very much, did you, Peter?” Chelsea asked, shooting Felicity a skeptical look.

“I didn’t like him because he wanted me to do all the complicated shit only Felicity knows how to do,” said Peter wryly. He turned to Felicity curiously. “Did he ever get back to you on that, by the way? He really sounded like it was urgent.”

“No,” she said quickly, shrugging. “I guess it wasn’t as important as he made it seem.”

She avoided looking at any of them, and then her head snapped up when Peter said, “But Lord knows what Oliver Queen was doing with an encrypted drive in the first place.”

The words went through Felicity’s ears slowly, like she was underwater. Her mind buzzed fuzzily around—she felt so _slow_ —and she had to check to make sure her mouth wasn’t open goldfish-style, because all the thoughts she’d been pushing away had come back in full force.

“Probably had the phone numbers of every single woman in Starling City,” Martha said, snickering. “Seems like something he’d do.”

Felicity’s mouth opened and an uncomfortably loud laugh came out. “Really funny,” she said, trying to grin though her face refused to cooperate. “I’m just going to…go now. It’s my break. My lunch break. So I have to go. But it was great running into you guys. This was just…great. I have to go.” She ignored their stares and spun away.

“Something’s always off about the geniuses,” Chelsea whispered from behind her. She ignored that too.

Her brain was spinning. Everything was spinning. It couldn’t be, it _wasn’t_ possible, but the drive, the Vertigo, the scars… Five years stranded on an island would be a great way to learn archery. She almost laughed hysterically, but managed instead to make it back to her office and sink into her chair.

Felicity took a deep breath and held her head in her hands. There was no proof, she told herself. And people had been down this road before, people like the police and the media. When she got home, she’d investigate, she promised herself. When she’d met the vigilante for the first time, she, uncharacteristically for her, hadn’t felt any urge to unmask him. It hadn’t mattered who he was. He was the Hood, the man who needed her help to take down criminals, and that was more than enough. But now, now that he could be Oliver Queen, the man that had lived in the back of her mind for far, far too long, now it suddenly intensely mattered that he _wasn’t_ who she suspected he was.

 Or did she _want_ him to be Oliver?

Her throat was very, very dry all of a sudden. If Oliver Queen were the Hood, would that change anything? If he _was_ Oliver, he first of all didn’t want to talk to her outside of his stupid costume, as himself. So nothing about _that_ would change, she told herself, swallowing her disappointment. If he wasn’t Oliver, he was some stranger, a strange, socially responsible psychopath. And if he was Oliver, he was still that same stranger, she suddenly realized. All it meant was that the guy she’d been pining over for over a month was actually a messed-up, bow-wielding vigilante.

She groaned quietly because she’d told herself to stop thinking about Oliver Queen and here she was still trying to make him a part of her life. _It doesn’t matter if Oliver Queen was the vigilante_. She thought the phrase over and over until she’d convinced herself, more or less. But, and she let herself smile a little, Maybe-Oliver the Vigilante was a mystery, and she hated those. She would solve him one way or another.

 

 

“Where are you going?” Diggle asked him as he zipped up his hood.

Oliver wondered if there were any earthly way to avoid answering, but said eventually with a sigh, “Felicity wants to meet me.”

“Of course she does.” Diggle did not sound amused.

“Apparently she has something to show me,” Oliver continued, ignoring the implicit reprimand. “She says she needs a favor, and considering everything she’s done for us, I think we owe her one.”

“You should be more suspicious of things like this,” Diggle said without force, as if he’d already half given up. “One day you’ll walk straight into a trap.”

“It’s not going to be a trap,” Oliver said confidently, grabbing his bow and striding up the stairs.

“Have fun at Felicity’s,” his bodyguard said with a sigh.

He climbed in through the window as usual, looking up at her kitchen clock for the time. She’d probably walk in within the next fifteen minutes. He ignored the stab of embarrassment at his easy knowledge of her schedule and prepared the house, closing the curtains and stepping into the shadows. He left the lights on as a gesture of good faith, but dimmed them all the way down. Just as he retreated to the corner near her houseplant he heard faint footsteps in the hallway outside her door, then the clinking of keys, then the creak as it swung open. Felicity stepped in, glowing in the low light, ponytail bouncing behind her head. Her mouth fell open when she saw him, as though she hadn’t been the one to summon him in the first place. He smiled at that, smiled at her.

“Oh. You’re here already.” She clutched her bag tighter to her and closed the door behind her. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course,” he said, watching her as she took a few hesitant steps towards him. She was more nervous then he’d ever seen her, the babbling replaced by extreme caution, like something had changed. Her eyes were wide and watchful, raking over his carefully shadowed face like she was trying to see him. She’d never done that before.

“The thing is,” she said, hands twisting in front of her, “I’ve been debating whether or not to share this with you for weeks.” She paused and looked at him so intensely he felt her gaze in his bones. “Can I trust you?”

He wondered how to answer that. She could, fully and completely, and it hurt that she didn’t, but there was no way to show her that, not with the hood down.

She let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m not an idiot. I know you’re outside the law and you kill people and just having you in my apartment could get me arrested.”

He shifted. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I don’t even know who you are, under that hood.”

She still had that look leveled at him, that new searching look, and he wished with everything he had that he could just step closer towards her and let her feel his face and show her in every way he could that he never wanted to let her down.

“Yet I still feel like I can trust you,” she whispered, taking another tiny step forward.

He angled his face down but said, trying to keep his voice gentle so the voice modulator wouldn’t turn it into a snarl, “Felicity, you can trust me.”

She looked down too, and he couldn’t read her expression as she said, “Then I have something to show you.”

She rummaged through her bag and Oliver let himself watch her, watch her small hands with the bright nails and her soft gray sweater. He smiled unconsciously, was barely even curious as to what she was going to hand him. He was fine just being there.

At least, that’s what he thought until she handed him the notebook. _The_ notebook. It was printed on the same paper with the same names in the same handwriting. The blood rushed through his ears and he felt himself breathing harder.

“Have you ever seen this before?” Felicity asked him in a strange voice.

His eyes snapped to hers. She was staring intently at him again. “No.”

She sighed again. “I’m not an idiot. The names on this book are the names of people you’ve been targeting. This has something to do with you.” Her voice was calm. She was sure. There was no sense refuting it.

Oliver looked away from her, looked at the notebook as if he could figure it out just by willing it. “Where did you get it?”

“From Walter Steele,” Felicity said, her voice even softer now, as if she could see the quakes ripping him apart from within.

Oliver nodded, and nodded some more. “And where did he get it?”

“He said it belongs to Moira Queen.”

He felt a weight drop through him. That wasn’t possible. None of this was _possible_.

“Walter thought she was hiding something, something _more_ , and he wanted me to look into it but then he vanished,” said Felicity, sounding almost apologetic. “I think this list might have cost Walter his life.”

Oliver closed his eyes and exhaled. This was ridiculous. Felicity was wrong. His mother would never, could never… He turned the notebook over and over in his hands. Even if his mother was innocent, none of that could explain what the List was doing in Walter’s possession. All he could see were questions. All he could feel was denial and distrust.

A small hand came up to rest on his gloved ones, stilling them from fidgeting with the notebook. “Hey,” Felicity whispered, tightening her fingers.

Oliver pulled his hand back because no matter how much he needed her, the vigilante couldn’t hold hands with Felicity Smoak. “Yes?” he asked gruffly.

She withdrew her hand slowly, her eyes no longer meeting his. “I could help you,” she offered quietly. “I was already looking into your…into Moira, and I want to find Walter. If you just tell me what to do, I’ll look at this notebook and keep digging at Tempest.”

“Tempest?”

Felicity hesitated. “Moira Queen’s shady off-shore account that she used to salvage the Queen’s Gambit.”

Oliver felt his stomach lurch. “ _What_?”

She closed her eyes briefly as if afraid to look at him. “Let me help you,” she repeated.

It was too much to process, too much to handle. He had to get away. “I’ll be in touch,” he said shortly, stuffing the notebook in his pocket and heading for the window. For the first time, Felicity just stood there looking after him. There was no snarky quip at his back. But Oliver’s gut was still twisted and tangled. The notebook had taken up every bit of his attention. It wasn’t until much later that Oliver thought to wonder if there was anything wrong with Felicity Smoak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, well I finally finished that chapter, thank God. I'm having some writing-related issues, and a lot of it is because of my intense frustration with the show right now. But I'd love to talk to you guys! Whether you want to talk about the fic or complain about the shitfest that was 3x17, comments make me want to write faster.
> 
> Oh, also, I want to try this new thing where I write one shots? So if you have any prompts just hit me up in the comments. Hopefully forcing myself to write more will get me through this funk.
> 
> Love you guys. Seriously.
> 
> -Jo


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY this took forever! Stuff and things were happening in my life. Whatever. This is still a priority for me. Don't worry; I said I'll finish it, and I WILL finish it. Hope you like it!

Oliver half wanted to tear out every page of the notebook and hurl it off a bridge, or at the very least shove it in a drawer and forget about it, but instead, he handed it to Diggle, looking anywhere but at his face.

“What is this, Oliver?”

Oliver didn’t reply. He watched as Diggle slowly opened the book and leafed through the pages, a frown growing on his face.

“Is this the same as…”

Oliver pulled his father’s book out of his pocket and tossed it at Diggle, who caught it. “Yeah,” he said.

Diggle blew out a breath. “Who’s is this?”

“My mother’s,” said Oliver shortly, bracing himself for the explosion that would surely follow.

Diggle walked towards him, holding up one notebook, then the other. “So this book contains a list of the guys you’ve been hunting, and this book, your mother’s, is the same list of names.”

“It’s identical.”

He had this look on his face like he could barely contain his incredulity. “And where did she get it, Oliver? Come to think of it, where did you get it?”

Oliver looked straight at him, knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer. “Felicity Smoak.”

Diggle cursed quietly.

“She came to me with the notebook because she was worried about Walter,” said Oliver, hating how defensive his voice sounded. “She didn’t have anything to do with this. She even said she was investigating my mother.”

Digg raised his eyebrows. “She said she was investigating your mother and you’re fine with that? You must really have a thing for this girl.”

Oliver couldn’t even begin to think of a response to that.

“So she’s worried about Walter? She thinks your mother had something to do with his disappearance? But you don’t think your mother is guilty.”

“She’s my mother, Diggle,” Oliver said without an ounce of fight left in his voice. “She’s not the kind of person who would do that.”

“I can understand why you would believe your mother over your stepfather, but I tend to believe the innocent party is whoever is missing and presumed dead.”

Oliver didn’t disagree. At least, he didn’t until he talked to his mother himself. He looked into her eyes as he asked her about the notebook, and she couldn’t possibly be lying. She couldn’t be lying because she looked right back at him, and she hadn’t known anything, and he _knew_ her in any case. He knew she was innocent. So he stood next to her and watched the notebook go up in flames, resolving to throw away every ounce of suspicious he’d harbored because he’d already lost his mother and he had no desire to destroy their relationship again.

Diggle was not so easily convinced. “If this were anybody else you’d be hooded up for an arrow-side chat with them,” he muttered.

But it _wasn’t_ anyone else. Oliver refused to justify his trusting his own _mother_ to Diggle, but thankfully Diggle seemed to have given up. “I have some things to take care of with the club,” Oliver muttered. He ignored Diggle’s gaze on his back as he walked up the stairs.

 

 

Felicity had a printer in her apartment, a fact that had always made her feel pretty put-together as a person. It was an old one that made hissy noises when she had to print too many pages in a row and she’d definitely paid too much money for it because she liked the color, but at least now if she had a serious arts and crafts crisis she would be more than prepared. Honestly it was a shame she didn’t use it more often. She’d missed that noise. She’d forgotten the joys of having to yank the sheaf of paper as hard as she could when it inevitably jammed. “Come on, baby, just one more page,” she said aloud, giving it a smack, and suddenly intensely glad she lived alone. She straightened up, holding the last picture of Oliver Queen aloft triumphantly. “There.”

She’d always had a thing for those suspect boards in cop shows, with the collage of mug shots and maps with strings connecting everything. She didn’t exactly see the point, but it seemed to work for them, and honestly she needed _something_ to get her thoughts together.

After a half an hour of liberal tape usage, the largest window in her apartment was completely covered with clues. She put a profile shot of Oliver next to the official police drawing of the vigilante, and they seemed to match up. The only photo of the Hood in action she could find was blurry and utterly useless, but she’d gotten much more than just that from the SCPD database (“Let’s add that to the list of federal offenses I’ve committed because of Oliver Queen,” she muttered to herself). There were the details of his arrest on suspicion of being the vigilante, and the evidence was pretty damn convincing. They had video of him with the vigilante equipment on a stairwell. She nearly face palmed at that. She could figure out what his plan must have been, but it had been risky. What he needed was someone who could wipe the evidence when the going got tough, someone to keep the suspicion off him permanently. Not that she was offering her services.

He’d gotten away with it because they’d spotted the Hood working while Oliver had an ankle bracelet on. She guessed that meant he had an accomplice. She shook her head. Police words. He had a _partner_. A co-vigilante. It made her feel better to think someone had his back, although she guessed he could take care of himself. Five years on an island, five months fighting crime.

There was more. Apparently Oliver Queen had gone to the Russian mob for help to catch the Count Vertigo guy—and the Hood had come to her for the exact same reason. She had a couple pages on the Bratva, and she taped them right next to the report. Those guys were _not nice_. They killed and extorted all around the world, and they all had the same matching tattoos, like a biker gang, or a frat. She squinted at the photo, and then had to swallow because that was the same tattoo that was right above Oliver’s heart, the same tattoo she’d slept right on.

She knew, in her gut and brain and heart, that Oliver was the vigilante, but this was really the first time it had hit her what exactly that meant. It meant he’d killed. It meant he was a member of a _brotherhood_ of killers. It meant he went out every night and kicked out people’s teeth for information, that he left criminals scattered around the city with arrows in their guts for the police to collect and send to the morgue.

Felicity stepped backwards from the window so quickly she nearly tripped. What was the point of this? She knew she was right about everything. Why had she felt the need to comb through newspaper articles, hack into police records, use up her entire cyan ink cartridge? She supposed what she really wanted was to understand. She wanted to reconcile the dozen different pictures of Oliver Queen in her head, piece them together until he made sense. In a way, she missed Jonas. She hadn’t known anything about him other than that he had sad eyes and great abs but she felt like she could see _him_. And here she was staring at every different account of Oliver Queen, and she knew most details of his personal life and vigilante life and rap sheet, and she guessed what she was really looking for was Jonas. Underneath the hood and the tabloid garbage and the money and mug shots and Bratva tattoos, underneath all that, he had to be someone.

Felicity tried with all her might not to think about the fact that when she was around him, it felt like she _knew_ that someone.

 

 

Oliver actually _did_ have things to take care of with the club, but he was more than a little relieved when Tommy interrupted him. “Can I talk to you about something?”

He looked so apprehensive that Oliver nearly laughed. There was a time when he would have been irritated, jealous, bitter, but now he was just amused. “Tommy, every time you want to talk to me about something and that something is Laurel you look like you’re about to tell me you have a terminal disease.”

Tommy gave him a tiny smile. “Sorry. I forgot we were trying to make this not awkward.”

Oliver shook his head and grinned. “It’s not awkward, Tommy.”

His best friend held up his hands jokingly. “Hey, hey, I’m working on it!” Then he dropped his hands and sighed. “It’s just…do you think Laurel’s being completely honest with me?”

“What?” asked Oliver, playing dumb. He knew Laurel well enough to guess that she hadn’t told her boyfriend, that, for instance, she was working with the vigilante.

Tommy looked away. “I don’t think I’m being paranoid. I trust her. Obviously I trust her. But she’s been doing some research of her own, and she said the police couldn’t help. I asked her what she meant by that, but she just told me not to worry about it.”

Oliver shifted in his seat. “It’s probably nothing.”

“I know. I know it’s probably nothing.” Tommy shrugged. “But I feel like it’s something.” He grinned suddenly, sheepishly. “It’s weird being in a relationship where _I’m_ worried the other person isn’t being honest.”

“I think you need to talk to Laurel about this, not me,” Oliver told him, wondering when he’d fallen into the role of relationship counselor.

Tommy sighed, and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Yeah.”

Oliver flashed him a smile, and then the vigilante phone buzzed in his pocket. He’d been expecting it. He stood up and pretended to check his phone. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

He picked up as soon as he reached the hallway. “Hello?”

Laurel’s voice rang in his ear. “I need your help.”

“That’s why you have the phone,” said Oliver tersely, hit suddenly by guilt that he was helping Laurel lie to Tommy.

“Cyrus Vanch was just released from prison on a technicality, and his lawyer wound up dead in an alley. There isn’t any evidence tying Vanch to the body, but the murder fits his MO.”

“What about the police?”

“They can’t move without any evidence of new criminal activity.”

“And I can’t move unless I know where he is,” Oliver said impatiently.

She hesitated. “I can’t help with that.”

He smiled suddenly because he had Felicity for that. “I’ve got it. Keep your phone handy. I’ll call you when I find something.” He shoved the phone back in his pocket and poked his head around the door to tell Tommy he had to leave. Gathering evidence was a grunt task, but at least it would distract him from the notebook.

 

 

Oliver called her. Well, the vigilante called her. Oliver didn’t know she knew he was Oliver. It was complicated. It could give her a headache. It made her heart pound. “Yeah?” she said, swallowing anxiously, looking around to make sure no one was walking by her office.

“I need your help finding an address,” said the growly voice. She was tempted to just blurt out that he didn’t need to use the annoying voice modulator anymore, but she kept her mouth shut. There was a pause as he seemingly waited for her response and then he continued, “Cyrus Vanch.”

Felicity typed the name into every database she had downloaded onto her computer. Ex-con, out of prison. His lawyer was dead. That was probably the thing they were trying to solve. The case? Did he call them cases? And were they suspects or pincushions? “He’s holed up in his lawyer’s house.”

Oliver didn’t answer for a second, and then he said, “What’s the address?”

She sighed. As if he couldn’t go on Yellow Pages for thirty seconds. She hit another couple keys and rattled it off.

“Thank you,” he said formally.

“You’re welcome,” she said. She waited for him to hang up. He didn’t.

“Is everything okay?”

_Was_ everything okay? She got the feeling that if she just told him she knew who he was, everything would go up in flames. They couldn’t keep up doing _this_ , this pretending their relationship was professional and impersonal. They’d have to acknowledge their history (if one night counted as history). They’d have to ask the hard questions, questions she was afraid to answer.

“Felicity?”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “Just go do your vigilante thing.”

“Okay,” he said, then paused again before saying, “Bye.”

“Bye.” The phone clicked off and she sat there, trying to absorb that he’d said goodbye for a change. Apparently he _was_ capable of being polite once in a while.

“Felicity?” said a voice at the door. She looked up and saw Martha there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Of course you’re here. Even though it’s break time.”

Felicity shrugged and pushed up her glasses. “Just got a lot of work to do.”

Martha looked unconvinced. “Who were you talking to just now?”

“No one,” said Felicity automatically. “Well, not no one, obviously. But no one interesting.” She thought desperately back to the phone conversation. What had she said? “It was my boyfriend from out of state,” she added, with the feeling that she was maybe digging herself even deeper. “We call sometimes. We’re into role-play. Probably shouldn’t do it at work.” She forced herself to laugh.

“That’s nice,” said Martha, nodding halfheartedly. “Well I’ll just…”

“Yeah,” said Felicity, relieved. She watched her leave, cursing her inability to lie.

 

 

Something was going on with Felicity. Another problem to add to the list in his head, the latest of which was that he was fairly certain Vanch had spotted him eavesdropping with a recording arrow.

But Felicity wasn’t acting normally. She was brusque and cold and lost in thought. He’d thought after trusting him with Walter’s notebook she would have let him in further, but it seemed like she’d pushed him out instead. It hurt. It wasn’t enough to tell himself she had been acting exactly as the tech support usually acted, because it wasn’t enough for her to just give him an address. He wanted more out of her. He wanted _more_ of her.

He sighed, glad that at least he’d managed to collect the evidence as asked for. He _was_ glad, until he met with Laurel and they were surprised by half the SCPD. Lance had bugged the phone.

“You have a bit of a woman problem, don’t you, Oliver?” Diggle asked, his voice torn between amusement and frustration.

“What are you trying to say?” Oliver spat out. He wasn’t in the mood for being told off. He’d had to fight the cops, had to use Laurel as a hostage. And he could just picture Tommy’s face in his head if anything had happened to her.

“You trust them too much. Laurel, your mother.”

Oliver let out a groan at that, but Diggle wasn’t finished.

“Felicity.”

“I don’t want to talk about my mother,” was all Oliver could think of to say in response. “And Felicity is trustworthy.”

Diggle shook his head slowly. “We’ll see about that,” he said, before grabbing his jacket and leaving the basement.

Oliver barely had time to wonder what he meant by that before Lance’s phone rang. It had been in Laurel’s possession, but he doubted Detective Lance would have let her keep it after the failed sting operation. The surge of anger at Lance’s betrayal returned and he picked it up, growling, “You have ten seconds before I have this permanently destroyed.”

“There’s a stiff here with a message for you,” said Lance, not sounding at all pleased to have to talk to him.

Oliver frowned. “And you’re telling me about it instead of blaming me for it?”

Lance hesitated. “One of your arrows was found in the body. One of those recording thingies.”

Oliver felt a chill creep up his spine as Lance played the recording. “Starling City vigilante. You know who I am. You tried to spy on me earlier today. Well, you know where I live. Come and meet me properly. Otherwise next time I’ll kill someone you care about.”

The recording ended and Oliver scrubbed his face with his hands. He thought of his mother and Thea first, but Vanch evidently didn’t know his real identity, so they were probably safe. He cast his mind around for anyone else he could possibly be threatening. “You need to get Laurel under protection. Too many people know she works with me, thanks to you.”

"She’s not going to take my protection,” Lance said miserably. “She’s mad at me.”

“Make her take it,” he snapped impatiently. He ended the call, throwing the phone back on the table. If anyone got hurt, it would be his fault. He was putting people in danger just by being around them. It was selfish and careless and dangerous. He needed to cut ties with Laurel. He couldn’t let any more people get hurt because of him. The list was already too long.

 

 

Felicity was starting to get instincts. She could tell when someone was in her house, could tell by the quality of the silence and the number of shadows. Weeks of not knowing when to expect the vigilante to pop up in her kitchen had made her attuned to her senses. So she felt pretty cool as she snuck around the corner with her tablet held over her head, prepared to smash whomever it was who was lurking.

“Whoa there,” said a deep voice, backing up with his hands in the air. “Easy. And what do you think you’re going to do with a tablet?”

“It could hurt a little,” she said defensively, backing up herself now because wow, this guy was huge. He was at least the size of her refrigerator, with a black ski mask pulled over his head, which honestly was a lot better at concealing his identity than that stupid hood and greasepaint combo. Someone needed to talk to Oliver about that. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, her voice shriller than she would’ve liked.

"I’m an…associate of the Hood’s.”

He certainly had the muscles to make that possible, but how could she possibly know that that was true? For all she knew he was a bad guy. He had broken into her apartment after all. Speaking of, she might as well officially take the locks off the front door, because clearly they were doing _nothing_. “Prove it,” she said, crossing her arms around her tablet.

They stared at each other for a couple seconds, Felicity trying not to cower under the stranger’s incredible hugeness, until he finally said, “How?”

That was a good question. Felicity inched towards the light switch, but the man didn’t do anything to stop her. He seemed frozen, staring across the apartment at her window that she’d turned into a suspect board. _Oh frack_. She kept the blinds down usually to hide it, but they weren’t closed and through the slits you could clearly see parts of Oliver’s face scattered around.

“He told you who he was?” the man breathed, tugging off his mask.

She pointed a shaky finger at him because she recognized him from all the research she’d done. “John Diggle! You’re his bodyguard! Ex-military. Wow, didn’t think a guy like you would get involved in all this.”

“Call me Diggle,” he said. He had a look on his face that was not at all happy. “And you’re Felicity Smoak, the girl Oliver apparently trusts enough to give up his real identity.”

Felicity shook her head. “He didn’t tell me. I figured it out. Can’t believe more people haven’t.”

“He’s not as subtle as he thinks,” Diggle agreed, his expression changing to exasperation. “I told him to stop coming to you. Said you were too smart, that you’d find out sooner or later.”

“You were right,” Felicity said, hitting the light switch and motioning for him to take a seat. This was clearly going to be one of those _chats_. “But I’m, you know, pretty good at what I do, so I guess that outweighed the risk.” She knew he’d tried to get everything done with Peter’s help, but he must have given up finding an alternative once Peter had failed. That had to be the only reason he’d stayed with her. Right?

“Right,” said Diggle skeptically, and she started before she remembered he couldn’t hear her thoughts. He walked over and settled down on a chair opposite Felicity’s, which she counted as a victory. “And what do you think of Oliver being the vigilante?”

Felicity thought about this. “Well, at first I didn’t want to believe it, cause the vigilante is a deadly killer and Oliver’s…Oliver. But it started to make sense. He has that look in his eyes like he’s always fighting himself, and when he smiles he just seems so _surprised_. And then there’s the scars and the muscles and the jumpiness.” She blushed as she suddenly realized Diggle was probably wondering how she’d seen Oliver’s scars, but he didn’t ask. She continued in a rush, “And the vigilante seemed familiar too, the way he stood and the way he reacted to things. I’d always thought there was more to him, and now I guess I understand some things. The island must have really changed him. I’m not sure I agree with the fact that he kills people, but I can see he really believes in what he does.”

"Wow, you actually know him pretty well, don’t you?” Diggle said, his surprise clear in his voice.

“Actually we only met once,” she admitted. “I mean I’ve met him as the vigilante more than once, but I only met _Oliver_ one time.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Must have been a memorable one time.”

Felicity tried not to blush again, unsuccessfully. “Don’t tell him I know who he is,” she blurted out.

“He doesn’t know you know?” he said, actually _smiling_ with disbelief.

She winced. She knew it was ridiculous, that everything between her and Oliver, not that there _was_ anything, was positively absurd. The coincidences and secrets and lack of communication, it was a farce. “It would just be easier if we kept it professional.”

Diggle didn’t comment, just shifted in his seat and said, “Look, Felicity, I’m going to be honest.”

“Go right ahead,” she said, giving him a bright smile and hoping he wouldn’t be _too_ honest.

“When Oliver told me about you, I was concerned. He doesn’t always have the best judgment when it comes to who he trusts.”

“Like his mom,” she muttered, and he shot her a look.

“Yeah, like his mom. Oliver’s the kind of guy who would go to hell and back for any person he even so much as connects with. I was worried you’d be a liability.”

“You were worried? You’re not worried anymore?” she asked hopefully.

He frowned thoughtfully. “Oliver told me you were looking into Moira Queen.”

She nodded. “I am. Was. I was looking into Moira Queen and then I stopped because I gave Oliver the notebook.”

“Oliver’s still in denial over his mother,” said Diggle with a sigh. “He still thinks it could all be coincidence. I’ve been driving his mother around, but it’s not taking me anywhere. I need more evidence than that to convince him.”

“So you need my help,” mused Felicity.

"Do you have any ideas?”

She considered the issue. “You could bug her.”

Diggle shook his head. “I tried, but they nearly found me standing in a closet.”

“Put the bug on her,” she suggested. “I have access to a couple prototypes that are small enough that she won’t notice. I can comb through the footage from here.”

He looked relieved, running a hand over the top of his head. “You’d do that? I must admit it’s a relief to bring somebody else in. I’ve had to look into this myself. Oliver has a thing about his mother.”

“An understandable thing,” she said quickly. “She is his mother, after all.”

Diggle’s face was a little softer now as he looked at her. “You are pretty remarkable, you know that? I can see why he trusts you.”

She squirmed at the praise. “And here I am betraying his trust by conspiring with you behind his back,” she joked.

“Yeah, well,” he said, standing up. “He needs that sometimes.”

Felicity nodded and held out her hand. He took it and they shook. “See you soon?”

“See you soon.” He let go of her hand and headed for the door. She watched him leave, feeling more than ever that she’d fallen straight down the rabbit hole. Meeting Diggle, especially once he took the mask off, made her wonder how long she could continue pretending she was just looking in from the outside, that she wasn’t just as much a part of this as the other two.

Diggle turned around at the door, one hand on the handle and said, “Just for the record, I think you should tell him.”

Felicity frowned uncomfortably. “Tell Oliver I know who he is?”

He nodded. “I don’t like keeping this from him. And you’re just avoiding the problem.”

She couldn’t deny it.

“I think you could do a lot to help us. You’ve already done a lot to help us. But we could use someone like you on the team.”

“I’ll consider it,” she said softly.

He hesitated, as if on the brink of saying more, and then shook his head, pulling the door open. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” she called after him. She looked down at her tablet and pursed her lips. “He seemed nice. And there I go talking to inanimate objects again.”

 

Oliver walked into his house the next afternoon and nearly ran right into Tommy. “Whoa, hey,” he said laughing, and then stopped when he saw the expression on his friend’s face. “Is something wrong?”

Tommy continued pacing in tight circles around the foyer. “I was right. When I thought Laurel was keeping something from me. Did you know she’s been working with the vigilante?”

Oliver did his best surprised face. “What happened? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” he said bitterly. “But they’re putting her under police protection. Apparently some psycho threatened everyone connected to the vigilante. And apparently everyone was aware she’s been working with him. Everyone except me.”

“Tell her not to,” Oliver said seriously. “The vigilante is dangerous.”

Tommy spun around and shot him an incredulous look. “You think I can tell Laurel what to do?”

Oliver tried not to smile. “I guess not.”

Tommy shook his head sadly. “I just wish she told me. She could have gotten herself killed.”

“Well, she’s safe now,” Oliver said reassuringly. “And maybe the vigilante will decide to stop going to her for help now that he sees how dangerous it is.”

Tommy snorted. “You’re acting like the guy has even a shred of sanity.”

“The point is,” Oliver interjected, trying not to be offended, “talk to her. Tell her what your objections are. And don’t be offended that she didn’t tell you. She probably had her reasons.”

“When did you become this wise?” said Tommy, grinning, nudging him with his elbow.

“I don’t know if you heard, but I was stranded on an island for five years,” Oliver said, straight faced.

Tommy laughed and clapped him on the back.

The vigilante phone rang again and he excused himself to answer it. “Hello?”

“There’s been another message,” Lance said without preamble.

It was short. “ _Last chance_.”

Oliver’s mind flashed from person to person. “Laurel’s safe?” he asked, just to make sure. “He’s probably frustrated he can’t get to her.”

“I don’t know,” said Lance, sounding frustrated. “I’m just letting you know.”

“Thanks, Detective,” said Oliver grudgingly. He hadn’t wanted to engage Vanch. He was supposed to be in the shadows, taking down people on the List, not taking challenges from common criminals. But it looked like he would have to deal with him sooner or later.

 

Diggle had sent Felicity hours worth of audio. She sighed and ran it through her computer, looking through it like she’d promised. “Who knew being a vigilante came with so much homework?” she muttered to herself.

Most of it was clean. She used the waiting time to give herself a manicure. She was really feeling blue nails this week. It was boring work, until it suddenly wasn’t. She let out a low whistle. It was worse than she’d expected. She couldn’t tell who the other person in the conversation was, but they were talking about threatening people. It sounded like _she’d_ threatened people. “I hate being right,” she sighed, taking out her phone to text Diggle.

She closed her laptop and walked to the kitchen to get herself some tea. She usually went for coffee if she wanted to work late, but her coffee machine was making some scary noises. The kettle on, she leaned against the counter and blew on her nails to get them to dry faster. Everything was just taking _forever_.

There was a knock on the door. She hadn’t expected Diggle to show up that quickly. Good thing there was extra water in the kettle. She pulled open the door, saying, “That was fast.”

It wasn’t Diggle. She screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I'm just trying to outdo myself with the cliffhangers. Sorry? I will say, though, I expect the next chapter to come out pretty smoothly.
> 
> I apologize to anyone who's disappointed with how much I changed from 1x13, but I wasn't too fond of it as an episode, so I didn't mind butchering it.
> 
> And lastly, HOW EXCITED ARE YOU FOR 3x20? My friends and I are calling it the "sexisode." If the next chapter takes more than a week to write, it's probably because I'm rewatching the sexisode for the millionth time.
> 
> Don't forget to comment! It's my favorite part of writing fic :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... Hi. It's been a while. Yeah. Wow, what did I usually write in these? I have no idea.  
> I guess I'll start by saying, yes, there are reasons that it's been so long, and yes, I could whine about finals, and move outs, and new jobs, and all that boring stuff, but no matter how legitimate my excuses are I am actually disappointed with myself for this delay because beyond just wanting to finish this, I actually really hate to keep you guys waiting. You guys have been really patient with me, and I appreciate that, and I am writing this for you guys just as much as I am writing it for me. So thank you for all the support and in return I'll finish this to the best of my ability as quickly as I can given my other commitments. Deal? Deal.  
> So as an apology, this chapter is longer than usual, and I think it's pretty good, too...but by all means feel free to disagree ;)  
> Okay I'll stop rambling.
> 
> -Jo

“Ollie?”

Oliver had been on his way out. The basement called. There were arrows he needed to sharpen, and he hadn’t gone on the salmon ladder all week. But when he turned and saw his sister’s hopeful face, he figured he had some time to spare.

“Thea,” he said, walking over to where she sat on the foot of the stairs.

She gave him one of those muted smiles. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Well, I’m here.” Oliver walked cautiously forward, because sometimes his baby sister would rather bite than bark. “How are you?”

“I’m…getting there,” she said, with that honesty she always gifted him with.

Oliver nodded. That was a state of being he was intensely familiar with.

Thea looked down at her hands, still a little subdued from her trial and all the fights that had only ended when she agreed to join Laurel at CNRI. “It isn’t that bad. Working there,” she said, but not grudgingly, more like a revelation.

Oliver smiled and moved to sit next to her. She scooted over readily enough. He hadn’t ever been as good of a big brother as she deserved, but now that he was back, now that both of them had confirmed how much they needed each other by losing each other for far too long, he wanted more than anything to try. “Thea, sometimes we all have to do whatever it takes, no matter how much we have to lose. In your case, I mean your pride.”

She let out a reluctant laugh. “You know us Queens and our pride.”

Oliver felt himself smile. He glanced out the door window. The sun was setting. There were lines of color cutting the ink spots in the sky, deep orange and light pink making even the darkest blue glow. Training could wait. This moment, on the stairs with his sister by the last of the dying sun, was too precious to cut short. “I know I’ve been busy and distant and just…disappointing.”

“Only most of the time,” Thea said with a wry smile.

“But I’m here now. Let’s do something.”

She lit up, her smile squeezing his heart. “I have a couple DVDs I never returned to the library.”

“That sounds perfect,” he said sincerely.

“They’re chick flicks,” she shot back, giving him a wicked grin.

He pretended to wince, making her giggle. And then his phone buzzed. Thea sighed and sank back, and he squeezed his eyes shut because he knew that he would have to answer.

“Hi Diggle,” he said as casually as possible, aware of Thea’s eyes on him. “I’m a little busy right now.”

He sounded grim. “Whatever you’re doing is going to have to wait. I’m at Felicity’s apartment right now.”

Oliver almost couldn’t wrap his mind around that last sentence. “What?”

The wild thoughts running through his head, the questions he had, the incredulous words he only swallowed because of Thea’s presence, all were wiped out as soon as Diggle continued. “She’s gone. The door’s open. Signs of a struggle.”

“ _What_?” he breathed.

“It could be Vanch it could be…” he seemed to hesitate. “Someone else.”

“I’m on my way,” Oliver said numbly, barely noticing Thea calling his name as he stumbled to his feet.

“Where are you going?” she asked, and he finally looked around, registering through his daze that she’d stood up too.

“There’s a problem at the club,” he lied, trying to compose his face.

“Your bodyguard called you about the club?” Thea asked, voice flat.

Oliver nodded, bracing himself for anger, disbelief, disgust.

She didn’t raise her voice, though. “You look that stressed out about the club?”

He could tell she didn’t believe him. He wanted to defend himself, convince her, apologize. But there was no time. “I’ll explain later,” he said desperately, backing to the door. Thea just looked away, and he realized that he could take her anger, that he almost wished for her to yell and rage because anything was preferable to her looking this sad.

The route to Felicity’s was familiar, and he took his motorcycle at a breakneck speed. Digg’s words echoed through his head, _she’s gone…signs of a struggle_ , and he gritted his teeth as the wind hit him in the face, but not hard enough, not hard enough because he was poison, because he ruined everything good he came across. She had an open smile and soft hands, and she’d had to struggle as she’d been dragged away, and it was his fault. He’d brought darkness to her doorstep. She was gone.

He left his motorcycle carelessly in front of her building and raced up the stairs, taking them three at a time, skidding to a stop in front of her door. Sure enough, it was ajar. Diggle stood just over the threshold, looking around the corners of her apartment.

“They knocked over two kitchen chairs and broke a glass of water on the floor. There are scratches on the door,” Digg said aloud, sensing him without turning around.

Oliver didn’t move inside. He didn’t want to see the struggle. He didn’t want to see the scores she’d left in the varnish, maybe dotted with flecks of her brightly colored nail polish. He couldn’t.

As if Diggle understood this, he continued describing the scene. “I can’t tell how many people were here. More than one for sure. I’d say around five.”

“Is there a note?” Oliver asked through gritted teeth.

“If there is, I can’t find one.”

Oliver found himself pacing back and forth. “Vanch usually sends a recording to communicate with the vigilante,” he growled.

“Well there isn’t one here,” Digg said, voice low, like he didn’t want to set Oliver off any more.

“What were you doing here?” Oliver shouted, not even sorry to be using his partner as an outlet for his rage.

“Meeting her,” Digg said calmly, and that only made Oliver even angrier, because how could he be calm at a time like this? _He had Felicity_. “I needed her help with something.”

“With what?” Oliver demanded. How could Diggle, so concerned with concealing their identities, so mistrusting of outside help, just meet up with her like this? He risked giving up everything. Oliver felt inexplicably like he’d been played.

Digg didn’t answer right away, and Oliver took an involuntary step forward, but he was prevented from doing whatever he would’ve done by his vigilante phone ringing. He kept his eyes on Diggle as he answered it.

“Another short one,” Lance barked. He sounded different. Less antagonistic, his usual growl belied by anxiety.

The recording was, in fact, short. “ _Come and get her_.”

“Laurel’s fine, I checked, so I don’t know—“

Oliver cut him off. “It’s not Laurel.”

“Then who is it?” asked Lance, his voice a contradictory mix of concern and relief.

“I’ll handle it.”

“Look,” Lance started grudgingly, “I’d call in the force, but there’s gotta be some way he knows who’s connected to you, and if he’s got an inside man…”

“I told you I’ll handle it,” Oliver said impatiently. He ended the call and started striding away, back down the hallway, back to the stairs. They were wasting time. Felicity didn’t have time.

“Hey! Oliver!” Diggle called after him.

Oliver stopped walking but didn’t turn around. There wasn’t time for this either. “Go ahead. Tell me it’s a trap. Tell me it’s reckless and I shouldn’t go. _I don’t care_.”

“No, man, I was just going to tell you I’m coming too,” Digg said coolly.

Oliver had to turn around at that. He gave Diggle a long look before nodding. “Then let’s get a move on.”

 

 

She came to in a strange room. Her first instinct was to wriggle, but she was tied to a chair that was at the foot of a dining table. The ropes were tight. Her glasses were off her face and her hair was in her eyes and her wrists chafed and all these things would have bothered her if she weren’t so terrified. There were only two people in the room, not that she could take them anyway, a creepy man and an equally creepy woman, or at least she assumed they’d look creepy if their faces looked like anything more than smudges. They were her kidnappers. She’d been kidnapped. Felicity’s stomach churned as she finally put words to what they’d done. She wondered if they’d let her go if she threw up. She somehow doubted it.

“Oh good, you’ve decided to join us,” said the man.

She blinked at his words, and if she were fierce or badass or just any less scared she would’ve thought of something to say, but she couldn’t do any more than shiver.

“I thought you’d be out all day, and then you’ll miss all the fun,” he continued, walking around the table, all the better to be a creep.

“Fun?” Felicity squeaked.

“Watching me kill the vigilante.”

Now he was close enough that she could see his face if she squinted. And she recognized his face from the search she had done. Cyrus Vanch. The blood rushed from her face as she remembered his rap sheet. He’d killed. Many times. And she couldn’t even move an inch to back away from him.

He took her silence as a cue to keep talking. “He’ll walk right into our trap and it will all be because of you.”

She was only here because of her connection to him. Felicity’s petrified mind started ticking again. “Why would he come after me?” she asked, wishing her voice didn’t shake quite so much.

But all he did was smile. “No need to pretend, Felicity. Can I call you Felicity?”

This was where she would shout “No!” if she was in a movie, but all she could do was gulp.

“I know you work with him. He’d do anything to save his partner.”

“I’m not his partner! I’m just in IT, fixing computers without getting any credit for it. I’ve never even seen the vigilante,” Felicity said desperately. “Now please let me go.”

Cyrus Vanch leaned in with a smirk and Felicity stiffened as he said, face inches from hers, breath hot on her ear, “You should close the door before you talk on the phone, Felicity.”

She whimpered, despite herself.

He patted her on the cheek and she squeezed her eyes shut. There was something cold at her throat. The flat side of a blade. She didn’t dare breathe. “And now, Felicity, you’re going to watch your friend die, and then once I’m done with him, I’m going to kill you too! It’s going to be a fun evening. In fact,” he raised his voice to call behind him, “toss me her glasses so she can see better.” Felicity heard the clatter of her glasses on the dining table, and then felt them slide carefully up to the bridge of her nose. “Now, make sure you keep your eyes open. I don’t want you to miss a second of his violent death.”

With one last cheek pat, he moved away, and Felicity opened her eyes again, peering up at him through smudged lenses. He took a step away and she felt brave enough to say, “You mean you don’t want me to miss him kicking your ass and dragging you off to jail?”

Cyrus Vanch was smirking again, in a way that made a chill creep up Felicity’s spine. “He’s going up against trained men with their fingers on the trigger of guns that fire up to six hundred rounds per minute. Now I’m no Einstein, but that is a lot of bullets. And even if he were to take them out, I have two sharpshooters on the roof. And even if he were to get by them, what’s he going to do against the veritable army of sons of bitches I’ve got waiting for him?”

Suddenly, she found herself hoping against hope he wouldn’t come for her. She was shaking with fear, but that, she could endure. Even death would at least end. But she didn’t think she could survive watching him die, especially when it was for her.

Vanch’s smile grew. “Now, as I said, I’m no Einstein, but I can count to twenty-four. And in case you were wondering, twenty-four is the exact number of arrows he carries in his quiver and flechettes around his forearm. Guess how many men I have.”

Felicity felt a babble coming on. She didn’t try to stop it. Anything to distract the asshole. “Well, he could pull arrows out of the corpses he drops and stick them in other people. Or he could take them down by hand. I’m sure he can throw a punch. Or…”

Vanch pounded the table, and she flinched. “Shut up!”

“Cyrus,” said the woman quietly, speaking up for the first time. “He’s here.”

Felicity turned her head as much as she could and saw Oliver walk in, hood down, hands up. There was a man behind him, prodding his back with a machine gun. She chewed on her lip and willed herself to stop trembling.

Vanch turned to her once more. “Well, Einstein, looks like my plan worked after all.”

She couldn’t look away from Oliver. He was standing still, impossibly calm, and she could finally see the side of the vigilante that got criminals running for their lives. There was a machine gun at his back, and he still felt like the one in control. No wonder Vanch wanted to kill him.

“Lose the bow,” Vanch barked, and Felicity couldn’t believe he didn’t see that the bow wasn’t what was dangerous about the man in green.

Oliver threw down the bow. Felicity held her breath.

Vanch crossed his arms comfortably. “End him,” he ordered the man with the machine gun.

The words had scarcely left his mouth when there was a gunshot.

A shout left her lips involuntarily and she swallowed it as Oliver’s head snapped around to look at her. It was the man behind him, though, who had fallen, clutching his kneecap. She sank back in her chair in relief. And now Diggle appeared through the door, glock held aloft, and Oliver picked up his bow and knocked out the machine gun man, and then smoothly did the same to the creepy woman. Felicity tried not to cheer.

She saw Vanch edging away out of the corner of her eye, and then Diggle raised his gun. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He froze reluctantly and Diggle walked forward purposefully and knocked him neatly over the head with the butt of his glock.

“Yay,” said Felicity, because she couldn’t help it. Then she slumped forward. She couldn’t hold it together any longer. She felt hands on her wrists then, big and gentle, but it was Diggle’s voice in her ear.

“Let’s get you out of these.”

She made herself look up. Oliver still stood away from her, presumably looking at her from beneath his hood. “Are you okay?” he asked, and the first words were in his harsh vigilante voice, until it cracked in the middle and changed to a tone so soft and low that she felt herself finally stop shivering.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Are you?” She turned to look at Diggle. “Both of you?”

“We’re fine,” said Diggle, giving her a smile and helping her up out of the chair.

Felicity could see Oliver looking between them, though she couldn’t see his expression, so she said, “Don’t forget to restrain these guys, or are we not doing that? Or are we going to kill them? What’s the plan?”

“ _We_ aren’t going to do anything,” Oliver said. His voice was back to the growl. He dropped to inspect the unconscious bodies, leaving Felicity standing, confused. “Take her home,” he added from the floor.

There was a definite push in Oliver’s statement, and his tone was aggressive, but not towards her. She could hear that familiar note of self-hatred in the way he shied away from her as if he were a contaminant. She’d been used to a certain intimacy with Oliver, even he hid in the shadow of his hood, and this just felt wrong. She turned to Diggle for a cue, and he took her gently by the shoulder and steered her away. “Let’s go,” he said, adding under his breath, “Tell him.”

Felicity stepped carefully around the pool of blood coming from the man with the machine gun’s knee, trying to ignore his twisted body, what was undoubtedly a very painful injury. They hurt people. She knew that. But it had saved her life as well as theirs. And looking at it that way kept her lunch from coming back up.

She followed Diggle out the door, leaving Oliver with the bodies, and tried to quell her squirming gut. No matter how much the idea of changing everything terrified her, she no longer had a choice. He’d killed for her now, more people than she had fingers and toes. And after that, here he was trying to push her away. She wouldn’t let him do that. She was running out of excuses. She would tell him. It was time.

 

 

His green gloves were too dark to see the blood they were drenched in. He called Lance to send a squad to Vanch’s hideout, and when the detective asked how many he’d killed, Oliver had ended the call. It didn’t matter. She was safe.

He’d left his motorcycle hidden behind some bushes, and he headed towards them, trying not to put too much weight on his right leg. He could already hear sirens off in the distance. This was the hard part, the after. When his limbs ached, and the legitimate justice took over, when he had to confront his thoughts. Real life hit when he pushed down the hood. But it looked as though he would have to keep it up for a little longer.

There were two figures standing near the clump of bushes, and he hoped as he walked closer it wasn’t Diggle and Felicity, but of course it was. There was time to bolt, to scare them off with a well-placed arrow, but Diggle gave him a tiny headshake and he knew he couldn’t avoid a confrontation. And why should he? He had things to say, to both of them. To Felicity, he had to say that she would never see him again, stare at her shoes as he did it, or memorize her face, walk away from her once more.

And he had a few questions for Diggle. The more he thought about it, the angrier he was. It was clear that Diggle and Felicity knew each other. Diggle had said from the start that he didn’t trust her, didn’t want Oliver to bring in a third person, and here he’d been seeing her this whole time.

They turned to look at him as he approached, heads angled together like they’d been talking. He felt off-balance. He stood in front of them as they faced him, shoulder to shoulder, looking almost oppositional. Diggle’s hand was on Felicity’s elbow, and this was what set him off. “How do you know her,” he said through clenched teeth.

“We only met yesterday,” Felicity said quickly. “He just needed help. Tech help. Obviously. And I helped him. That’s all. We’re not like, secret BFFs or anything.”

Oliver felt himself deflate. He couldn’t help it. He turned to look at Diggle, who said, “It’s the truth, man. We met yesterday.”

Oliver nodded, once. He’d interrogate him later, but there was one more thing he had to do. Diggle’s presence made it harder, but it didn’t change what he had to say to Felicity. He had to follow the same advice he’d given Thea: he would do whatever it takes. Felicity was just another thing he’d have to lose.

She had a look on her face, like she knew what was coming. She was chewing on her lip. He took a breath to speak (maybe if he broke it off quickly, maybe it wouldn’t break him too), but she spoke faster, syllables tripping over each other. “I have something I should probably tell you. Well, I probably should have told you a while ago, but I didn’t, but I will now.”

On any other day, that would’ve made him smile, but now it just made his heart sink because she clearly _didn’t_ know what he was going to do. “I have something to say too,” Oliver said, voice carefully disguised.

She nodded then, forcing a smile on her face. “I know you have something to say, but you should probably wait for my thing, because you might change your mind.”

Oliver shook his head. “I won’t change my mind.” She looked like she wanted to argue, so he continued. “This work I do is dangerous. I can’t let you be a part of it anymore.”

Her jaw literally dropped. “You can’t _let_ me?”

The only thing he could do was keep going like he hadn’t heard her. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, but you’ll never see me again. Diggle, take her home.”

“Hey!” said Felicity, reaching out for his arm as he turned away, but he was too fast. “You don’t get to decide for me. I make my own choices.” She was yelling after him now, voice rising with every word, and he had to close his eyes to the sound. “You could save so many more people with me. We’ll be more careful, or _something_ ; just let’s at least talk it through! Don’t walk away from me! _Oliver_.”

He froze.

He heard her breath hitch like she hadn’t meant to say it. But she had. She knew.

He pushed back his hood with trembling fingers, turned around to look at her, tried to think of something to say.

She was a lot closer than he’d thought she would be, like she’d walked forward with him, or maybe he’d walked back to her without realizing it. Her hand was on his forearm. He didn’t know when that had happened either. And then he realized that while he’d been lost for words, of course she hadn’t. “…figured it out. I mean you’re not exactly subtle. You came to Queen Consolidated with an encrypted drive, and then you gave me the same drive. Not exactly rocket science, and I _am_ a genius.” She looked away from him now, dropped her voice. “I don’t know why you didn’t just ask for my help as yourself. I mean, it might have been a little awkward, but it isn’t like we _knew_ each other. We could’ve kept it professional. I mean we can still do that. There’s no reason we can’t. Oliver,” he couldn’t help flinching when she said his name, but her fingers only tightened on his arm. “I want to help, even though I know the risks.”

She was incredible. She smiled hopefully up at him, ponytail falling to pieces around her face, still shaking a little from her ordeal, but certainty shining in her eyes. He didn’t understand it. After everything, she was impossibly strong, fantastically sure. He wanted to reach out and tuck her hair behind her ears, to grab her and kiss her like a beginning, tangle his fingers with hers where they rested on his arm, ignore the world and refuse to let go. This _should_ have been a beginning. She knew who he was now. There were no more secrets between them. Now they could just be Oliver and Felicity, the Jonas and Meghan of the past a pleasant memory instead of the shadow it had been before.

Except they couldn’t. He looked down at her hand on his leather sleeve, and her nails were chipped. They were usually perfect. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about her. She’d had red nails the first time they’d met, shiny and bright. Now they were blue as a sunny afternoon, but dull and uneven at the tips. He was sure he could find the rest of the color embedded into the scratches on her door. And that decided it for him. He tugged his arm firmly out of her grip and shook his head. “You can’t.”

He couldn’t wait and watch her face fall. He didn’t know if this was as wrenching for her as it was for him, but he couldn’t let himself find out. He couldn’t let himself change his mind. So he turned around and pulled his hood back up, walked back towards his motorcycle. He only turned around when he reached the top of the hill, from where he could see the flashes of the police cars back at the house, and the small figures he knew to be Diggle and Felicity, barely discernible in the growing dark. He didn’t allow himself to watch them leave. Instead he turned around and headed back home, where he hoped he could find Thea still free, so he could keep hold of one of the few people he hadn’t pushed away.

 

 

“I knew it,” Felicity sighed, tearing her gaze away from where the motorcycle had disappeared over the hill. “I hoped that if I told him, but…”

Diggle tilted his head to indicate they should walk to his car where he’d parked it by the side of the road.

Felicity felt the need to keep talking, maybe because of Diggle’s continued silence. “It was probably a shock though, me knowing. Probably shouldn’t have sprung it on him like that. I mean, I thought he wanted me to know, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I made it worse. And if I hadn’t gotten caught in the first place…” Her shoulders sagged then. One of them could’ve gotten hurt saving her.

Diggle opened the car door for her, and then walked around to the driver’s side in silence. He waited until they were both buckled up before responding. “It isn’t your fault,” he told her gently. “Oliver is about as stubborn as a person can get, and he never knows what’s good for him.”

Felicity shrugged a shoulder. She knew he was stubborn, but she couldn’t see how it was anyone’s fault but hers.

He shook his head at her a moment and then turned the key in the ignition, pulling smoothly away from the curb. “Now, we need to talk about your home. Is it safe to take you back there?”

She blinked at him. That hadn’t occurred to her. She had no thoughts beyond getting home and making herself some hot cocoa with as many marshmallows as she liked, because she needed that, and then heading off to bed and not getting up for at least a day.

“How did they find out that you’re working with us?”

“Were, apparently,” she muttered, and then when Diggle shot her a look, continued. “It had to be at work. He made a jab about not closing the door when I talk on the phone. It was open the other day when Oliver called. It could’ve been anyone, I guess. Martha was there. My coworker. It could’ve been her.” She chewed her lip, processing this. She wasn’t used to Oliver’s world yet, where anyone could betray you. “I liked Martha,” she said, a bit sadly. “Mind you, she never finished anything on time. And I’m pretty sure she ate my yogurt out of the fridge once. Last time I ever left food in there.” When Diggle let out a sigh, she felt the need to add, “So see? It is my fault. I should’ve been more careful. Maybe Oliver’s right and I’m not cut out for—“

“Felicity, one thing I learned very early about Oliver is that he is rarely right,” Diggle interjected. “But the one thing he _was_ right about is that all of this was his fault. Yes,” he said, when Felicity shook her head. “He’s the one that dragged you into this. It _is_ dangerous, and he wasn’t careful.”

“Well it’s not like he _dragged_ me into this. I wanted to do it. It made me feel like I was…doing something.” She glanced sideways at him, relieved when he didn’t laugh. “I know it’s dangerous, and I’m okay with that. Scared, but okay.”

“Oliver can be over-protective,” Diggle deadpanned.

Felicity rolled her eyes. “Stubborn, over-protective, and rarely right,” she said, feeling herself smile, though she couldn’t think of why.

Diggle pulled up next to her house and gave her a long look. “You gonna be okay?”

She nodded.

“Good.” He unlocked the car.

“Thanks,” she said, giving him a smile.

He smiled back. “Anytime.”

She was halfway out of the car when she remembered the tapes. “Oh, just one more thing, about Oliver’s mother.”

Diggle straightened, even more alert. “Right. What did you find?”

Felicity described the conversation she’d discovered in the recordings, the definitive proof that Moira Queen was doing shady things, such as threatening people. “It’s vague, but…shady.”

Diggle’s expression was profoundly grim. “I am gonna have to have a long chat with Oliver.”

“Good luck with that,” Felicity sighed. She started to slide out of the car again and then stopped once more. “Even if…even if he doesn’t let me keep helping him, can you make sure he finds Walter and stops his mother?”

“I’ll do my best,” Diggle promised.

“And,” she started to say and then hesitated, letting her eyes slide shut. When the vigilante had still been faceless, she’d assumed him invincible, in a way. But now that he was Oliver, now that she’d thought with every horrified neuron in her overactive brain that she would watch him die, she was only too aware that he was made of breakable parts.

She opened her eyes when she felt a hand touch the back of hers, and shrugged a little embarrassedly. She looked for judgment in Diggle’s face, but he gave her nothing but compassion. “I’ll look out for him.”

She nodded mutely, finally managing to get her feet on the ground outside.

“Take care of yourself,” Diggle called after her.

“You too,” she told him, squeezing his hand once. She watched his car drive away, and then trudged up the stairs to her usually cozy apartment. She switched on every light, locked and bolted the door, closed every window, and straightened up all the chairs she’d knocked over before (she couldn’t let herself think of exactly what had happened to knock over those chairs, because maybe she’d been lying a little when she told Diggle she would be fine by herself). It still wasn’t enough, so she dug out her old stuffed animal collection and set them guard over every entrance. That helped a little. But it was still the emptiest the apartment had ever felt.

 

 

The world was a little bit duller after he’d given up Felicity. Dawn had broken without ceremony, like the sun had no will to rise, and Thea was nowhere to be found. Whatever scraps of hope and light he’d clung to over the weeks he’d thrown away himself. Oliver slept for as long as he dared, and then went to the only place that could clear his head.

Diggle’s head snapped up from the computer monitor as soon as Oliver walked into the basement. “We need to talk.”

Oliver had expected no less. “Diggle, I’m not changing my mind. I know the two of you,” he paused, a flare of betrayal bursting up again, “ _bonded_ , but you don’t get to decide who works with us and who doesn’t. It’s my decision, and it’s been made.”

“It’s not about that,” Diggle said, though there was disapproval clear in his voice. “It’s about your mother.”

The anger shot through him once more. “I thought I was clear that we were done with that conversation.”

Diggle didn’t even blink. “I wasn’t done.” He turned to the computer then, pulling up a folder.

Oliver stepped closer in spite of himself, stopping when he saw that the folder was full of audio files. “Tell me those aren’t recordings of my mother,” he growled, feeling himself slip into his vigilante voice.

“I slipped a bug onto her,” Diggle said calmly.

“You _spied_ on her?” His fists were clenched at his sides, and for a moment, the urge to swing at his friend nearly overwhelmed him.

“I’m not sorry about that. But I am sorry about this.” Diggle clicked on one of the files, and to Oliver’s horror, it was his mother’s voice that echoed off the walls.

He’d never been so unhappy to hear anyone as he was in that moment. And Oliver finally forced himself to accept that Diggle had been right. “I didn’t have to make the usual threats,” she said, in exactly the same tone of voice she used to complain about the state of the lawn, or tell Thea she couldn’t hide a litter of cats in the upstairs sitting room, or scold Oliver for wrecking yet another car, with words more mild than he deserved.

And standing in front of her in the suit he only used to threaten criminals, he looked into her pleading eyes and he froze, because this was the woman who slicked back his hair for picture day, even though he hated it, and threatened to sue his teachers for failing him, and held his hand when he had to go to the hospital with a dislocated shoulder, even though he pretended he didn’t need her. This was his mother, on her knees, tears in her eyes as she pointed at a photo of him and Thea with a shaky finger. This was his mother, terrified and alone, and he was aiming an arrow at her.

The recording flew out of his head. Everything he’d told himself, everything he’d promised himself he’d do, the fairness he’d sworn to, none of it mattered now. He hated himself more than he ever had before, and he could never hate her. He lowered the bow almost unconsciously.

He saw her raise the gun almost in a daze, barely felt the bullet tear through him. He threw himself out the window on instinct alone, and bizarrely, the cuts on his face from the broken glass smarted before he could even feel his torso. And then he fell to his knees, his legs giving out under the throbbing pain. Somehow, he dragged himself along the lawn and up the ramp into the parking garage, collapsing onto the pavement. He wondered through the blinding pain if he could just give in, bleed out, take the easy route for once.

Through the corner of his eye he could see a flash of red, familiar somehow, and he forced his neck around. It was a red Mini. _Felicity_ , he thought dimly. A surge of energy forced through his veins and he struggled to his knees, crawling one-handed, adrenaline hitting him when he saw the license plate. It was hers. The door was locked, and he tugged on it fruitlessly before pulling out his lock-pick, jiggling it with increasing desperation, until it finally clicked open. He crammed himself into the tiny backseat with a last surge of strength.

His palms, clutched tightly to his wound, grew slicker and slicker with blood as he waited. He couldn’t feel time pass through any means but his ragged breath, and though he craved the numbness of unconsciousness, he forced himself to stay awake, expelling with every exhale the little warmth he had left, until he felt death creeping into his fingertips, slowing his heart and chilling his blood, and now every breath clawed at life as he held desperately on. And finally, _finally_ , the door opened.

“Felicity?” he croaked.

She gasped, and he saw her spin around through his fading vision. “Oliver?”

He was slipping away now, and it would have scared him if it weren’t for the warm hands cupping his cheeks, moving his hands away from his chest, the panicky voice in his ear.

“Oh my God, you’re hurt. Stay with me, okay? Stay with me. I’m just going to get you to a hospital, and then you’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

He pried his eyes open at that. Her worried face swam before him. “Not the hospital. My father’s old steel factory,” he mumbled with difficulty.

She hesitated, one palm still rubbing heat into his cheek, the other pressed over his bullet wound, red with his blood. “Okay. The factory. Please don’t die.”

There was a sob in her voice, and as Oliver’s eyes slid shut again, he hoped she wouldn’t cry. “I won’t,” he promised without being sure he had gotten the words out. And he felt her still talking, though he couldn’t hear, felt the echo of her hand on his face, though she’d let go, and couldn’t feel anything else. And when he finally fell into blackness it was almost like floating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I keep saying this, but I love talking to you guys. It inspires me and keeps me focused. You guys are really great commenters, so I know I don't have to ask you to do that. I'm actually also planning on setting up a tumblr. I have a url saved and everything, but I haven't actually gotten around to setting up a blog because I suck. So I'll let you guys know when that happens and then please, feel free to bug me for updates on tumblr too :)
> 
> Anyway, just thanks for being such great readers! You're a better audience than I deserve.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Again!  
> Thanks for not giving up on me. And if you did give up on me, yeah, I don't blame you.  
> I'm calling this one The One That's Basically a Word-for-Word Episode, Starring Medical Nonsense I Spent Ten Seconds on Google Pretending to Research
> 
> Feedback would be appreciated, but not required.
> 
> <3 ~ Jo

“Come on, come on, come on,” she muttered, because her seatbelt wasn’t clicking into the buckle for some reason, and then her hands were shaking too much to get the key into the ignition. And then she slammed on the gas too hard, maybe, because she heard Oliver groan softly from the backseat, and she almost panicked and slammed on the brakes but that would just make it all worse, and she knew the address of the steel factory from all her research, but maybe she was remembering it wrong, wouldn’t be the first time, and she didn’t have time to stop and use Google because his blood was still pouring out, so fast, fast, fast, and it was hard to see the road in front of her with a glaze of tears blurring her vision, and when she rounded a corner recklessly and had to swerve to avoid a stalled car, the resulting series of honks barely made an impression on her because she didn’t care, she would turn every car in front of her to dust if it meant he had a chance.

She couldn’t tell if the building she pulled in front of was the right place, but it didn’t make a difference. Every ounce of logic she possessed screamed at her to ignore his wishes and take him to a hospital, but here she was, listening to him anyway. She clambered out of the car and threw the back door open. He filled up every inch of space, a limp mass. She had a brief moment of terror when she couldn’t see him breathing and lurched forward frantically, pressing her ear to his lips, and a faint exhale against her skin made her shake with relief. “Come on, come on,” she whispered again, grabbing him under his arms with both hands and pulling with all her might. She slid him a couple inches, but it wasn’t enough, he wouldn’t move. She tried for another precious minute before realizing there was no way she could possibly drag him all the way inside the factory. She slumped forward then, face buried in the crook of his neck, his pulse weak on her cheek. “I’m going to get help,” she whispered into him. “You are not allowed to die.” She breathed him in one more time and then stepped unsteadily away.

The inside of the factory was half-finished, boxes lying in piles scattered across the shiny floor. Felicity felt disoriented. She scanned the room anxiously, and there was a hallway hidden away at the edge that she ran to immediately. There was a steel door parked conspicuously at the end of this hallway, a keypad on the wall right next to it. This had to be it, but Felicity wanted to cry because she could break in, but it would take time, and Oliver was, he was…. She whimpered and pushed desperately at the door, and, to her shock, it swung open. It hadn’t been fully closed. _Thank you, God_.

She stumbled down the stairs and there was Diggle, amazing, reliable Diggle, and she barely noticed the gun he was pointing at her, and all she said was “Help,” and he was bounding up the stairs two at a time. She followed at his heels, the breath filling her lungs more easily now.

“He’s been shot,” she explained as they half-ran to her car.

Diggle just nodded, his face a mask of concentration, and, impossibly, he lifted Oliver up onto his shoulder in one smooth motion, grunting a little as he did so. Oliver’s head lolled from side to side as Diggle began walking back to the building, and Felicity set off behind him, her knees shaking almost too much to walk.

They set him down on a table, Diggle unzipping his hood and pushing it to the side, revealing the round bullet hole much too close to his heart, surrounded by too much blood, and Felicity tried not to throw up. Diggle took one look and grimaced. “Oh, damn it. It just missed the carotid. It’s a Zone Two wound. Press there.”

Felicity forced her hands forward, pushing down. It felt like she was holding him together. It felt all the more real now. And her mind, usually buzzing with a hundred different things, could only in this moment focus on one: if anything happened to him, if she lost him, it would be all her fault. “I should have taken him to a hospital,” she choked out.

“You know he wouldn’t have wanted that,” said Diggle calmly, though he was moving like a whirlwind, putting together a medical cart and wheeling it close. “Even now, he would have cared most about protecting his identity.”

She shook her head numbly. “It doesn’t matter. Not as much as…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence, even finish the thought.

“He doesn’t need a hospital.” Diggle’s voice was still impossible steady as he pulled on gloves, tossing her a pair. “We are bringing the hospital to him.”

Felicity stared at the neatly labeled packets of crimson liquid. “Is that…”

“Yeah. His blood. He stored it for a rainy day.”

Impossibly, she nearly laughed. She could see Oliver now, sitting solemnly in this barren old basement, collecting his own blood in a bag just for the occasion of his near death, because such a situation was just inevitable. Because he knew then that someday he would be lying on a table, almost bleeding out; obviously, that was pretty fucking likely, _the idiot_. She blinked back tears, and his face, so relaxed in his unconsciousness, swam before her eyes. Her fingers were already stained with his blood.

Diggle was slipping on his gloves. She wanted to say something to him, to beg for more reassurances, but her voice didn’t seem to be working. But he looked at her like he understood. “I had some medical training when I was in the army,” he told her, and all she could do was shiver because she could see the doubt in his eyes, just as clearly as if he had said, “But not enough.” He nodded at her to move over and took over for her, his own large hands covering up Oliver’s wound as if it were never there.

Felicity’s fingers were almost trembling too much to put the gloves on and Diggle’s hand shot out to touch her lightly on the wrist. “Hey, Felicity, listen. Trust me. He’ll be fine. He’s been through a lot worse than this.”

Her eyes shot without bidding to his scars. They hadn’t bothered her before, had barely sparked anything more than curiosity. But now they burned before her gaze. He’d been through so much. She really got that now, and it was like she’d been kicked in the gut. She could almost hear the echoes of his screams in her head, the screams he must have let out, and she just wanted to cry and cry because of the pain she could see etched on every inch of his body.

Something was welling up in her throat, feelings so sharp and hard that she couldn’t swallow. There was fear, that she could recognize well enough, an intense sadness, and fiery hot protectiveness, stronger than she had ever felt before. There were also other feelings she understood less well, feelings she found herself reluctant to analyze. But as she stared down at the man who ought to have been a mystery, but who she felt, despite all reason, that she knew inside and out, a sudden resolve passed through her, turning her fingers as sure as steel, and the gloves slid up her hands easily now, fitting with a snap.

“I’m going to need your help, Felicity,” Diggle was saying. “It’s not going to be too bad. Ever play Operation when you were young?”

“That doesn’t seem like a fair comparison,” Felicity said, and though it was lower than she’d expected, at least her voice didn’t shake anymore.

“Are you going to be okay?”

She looked up at him. Despite the tension pressed into the corners of his mouth, his eyes were filled with nothing but sharp concern. She nodded once.

Diggle rubbed his hands together. “Alright, then. I’m gonna set up the blood transfusion, and you’re going to hook him up to the EKG machine.”

It was a relief to have something specific to do. “Good thing I’ve seen a lot of movies,” she muttered as she tugged the medical cart closer and started looking for the leads.

Diggle kept an eye on her as they worked, stopping her hands when she was doing something wrong, and before too long, there was a monitor right next to Felicity’s head on which she could see every pulse of Oliver’s heart, the steady tic of life through his veins.

“Good,” said Diggle, who seemed more tense by the minute. “Now we dig out the bullet.

Buried in Oliver’s flesh was a small, round bullet, and it looked deep, scarily deep. Felicity forced herself to watch as Diggle searched for it, gripping his forceps maybe too tightly in the stress. “Your fingers are smaller than mine,” he said finally, forcing the instrument into her hand. And she swallowed her nausea and went for it, wincing with every mistake, until she’d pulled out the tiny ball that had almost killed Oliver.

Diggle blew out a breath. “Okay, all that’s left to do is stitch him up.”

“Not doing that one,” Felicity said weakly.

He shook his head at her before threading his needle and handing her the disinfectant. Every tug of the thread through Oliver’s skin made her stomach turn but she watched anyway, breathing slowly until she was as calm as she could be. “Good job. I think,” she said as Diggle finished.

“His heart rate’s elevated, but at least the bleeding stopped.” He pulled off his gloves and then gave her a long look. “Thanks for your help. I know this must have been hard.”

“I wasn’t helping, I…” She couldn’t stand there for one more minute because then all she would do was stare at the freshly stitched wound and obsess over how close it had been, how ten more minutes stuck in her backseat might have killed him. She turned away, wrapping up her arms to hug herself. “This means as much to me as it does to you. You know that.”

“This?” Diggle asked quietly.

She shrugged. “All of this.” She gestured around them, and then added, almost without meaning to, “Him.”

She snapped her head around to look at Digg, but all he did was nod. “I know.”

It should have been embarrassing, admitting how much she cared about Oliver, but it just felt right to say it out loud. “It’s funny, I never thought I’d see him again,” she said, leaning forward to examine a row of arrows, neatly arranged in a way that was just so Oliver. “And then he was there again, barely a day after he told me we were through.” She paused. “That sounds like we were dating but that’s absolutely not what I meant.”

“Yes I know,” Digg said, amused.

“I guess he was desperate,” she continued flatly, brushing her thumb against an arrowhead. “He was hurt and I was the only one around to drive him here. He had no choice.”

“That’s not true. He was just lucky you were around. Felicity, he trusts you. He was in your backseat because he trusts you more than anyone else, even when I told him not to.”

Felicity didn’t answer him because Oliver’s trust just wasn’t enough for her anymore. She already knew he trusted her. She used to feel overwhelmed by the trust he had for her, this broken man who had told her outright when they first met that he couldn’t help seeing everyone he met as a threat. He trusted her enough to go to her for help even when it was dangerous, even when his biggest secret was on the line. Oliver’s trust had been precious to her, back when she thought it meant more than it actually did.

The problem was, he didn’t _need_ her. Sure, he needed her tech help once in a while, but that had more to do with the trust than anything else. He found a way to get her help without letting her into his life. And when she finally connected the dots and figured out who he was, he cut her loose without hesitation. He was ready to walk away from her forever. If he hadn’t been shot, if she hadn’t been his only choice, she knew in her gut that she would never had seen him again. And that really, really hurt. Especially now, because now she knew that if anything ever happened to him, if she could no longer see his heart beating in little spikes on the monitor across the room, if he ever left her again, that was it for her.

But she could come to terms with that, Felicity told herself. She needed him more than he needed her. It was a hard truth, but it wouldn’t be the first time she’d been in that position. She knew that when he woke up (because he _would_ wake up) he’d thank her for saving him and then find a new way, a new reason to shove her away.

Diggle’s voice cut through the silence. “Okay, what’s bothering you?” he asked shrewdly.

“Nothing,” she said reflexively, but she could tell by the look on his face that Digg wasn’t buying it. “It’s just, I know he trusts me, and I’m so thankful I was around to bring him here, but that doesn’t change the fact that he isn’t going to want me to stay.”

“Maybe not,” Diggle admitted.

Felicity felt her mouth twist a little bitterly. “Why did he ask _you_ to help him? I mean, I guess you can take care of yourself. While I can’t.”

“That’s really not it. You’ve helped us with a lot of cases now.”

She nodded. “But the Vanch thing really screwed everything up.” She’d screwed everything up by getting kidnapped.

“Yes it did. But not for the reasons you think. I have never seen Oliver more worked up than when he found out you were missing.”

Felicity frowned and shook her head disbelievingly.

“The man was a wreck, Felicity. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Oliver has a weird way of expressing his feelings. It may look like he’s pushing you away, but he thinks he’s saving you. It has nothing to do with whether or not you can take care of yourself.” His voice grew gentler as he continued. “If it would make you feel better, I would be happy to teach you some self-defense. Actually it would make all of us feel better. ”

“I’d like that,” she said, managing a real smile this time. She mulled over Diggle’s words. If he was right about Oliver’s feelings, and that possibility made her heart soar, it wasn’t so much that Oliver didn’t need her, but that he needed her safe more than he needed her in his life. She supposed she felt the same way. She could live with never seeing him again, as long as she knew he was okay.

And at that very moment, because the universe could not resist the irony, the EKG started beeping. It was the scariest sound she’d ever heard.

They ran to Oliver’s side. The heart monitor showed an irregular mess of beats, and Felicity felt like her own heart had stopped. He was having a seizure. His limbs jerked up and down, and the metal table clattered against the floor

She heard Diggle shout at her to get a syringe, and she took a couple dazed steps before the frantic beeping decayed into a long, shrill tone and she froze.

“His heart’s stopped.” Diggle spun around and pulled the paddles of a defibrillator out of the medical cart.

“Can you use one of those?” Felicity found herself asking, her voice nothing more than a squeak. She felt so useless. And Oliver’s body was still now. So still.

“We are about to find out,” Diggle said grimly, pressing the paddles to Oliver’s chest. The paddles beeped, but nothing happened.

Instinct finally kicked in. “I heard the charge,” she said, hurrying to the defibrillator. “That’s good news. It means it might not be the machine. It could be the wiring.” She pried the defibrillator open and then pulled a random surgical tool out of the tray. Not quite a screwdriver, but it would do the trick.

Now Diggle was the one muttering, “Come on, come on, come on.”

It was an easy fix. “Try again,” she said. She lost all the air in her lungs as he replaced the paddles. Her knees almost gave way when it didn’t work the first time, but after the second charge there were blips on the heart monitor again and Felicity sank forward, supporting herself on the edge of the table. “Oh thank god.”

Diggle leaned over next to her, and it was clear from his shaky breath that he was more rattled than he’d been letting on. “What would I have done without you?”

Felicity shook her head mutely.

They were both silent a moment, just looking down at the man they almost didn’t save. Felicity reached impulsively for his wrist, holding it loosely in her fingers just so she could hear his pulse. “What do we do now?”

“Nothing to do but wait.” Diggle touched Oliver carefully on the chest as if to make sure he was there. Then he walked restlessly away, settling down on a computer chair with a tense exhale.

Felicity couldn’t make herself let go of Oliver’s wrist. It should have felt weird, standing so close to him when really, they were barely even friends. They hadn’t even been allowed to touch just a day ago, and here she was, holding his hand almost automatically. She gazed at his face, willing his eyes to open. She wondered what would happen if he caught her with her hand on his. Probably, she told herself, he would shake off the contact, separate their lives again. But maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d tangle his fingers in hers, hold on even more tightly. His hand twitched in hers, and she held her breath, staring intently at his eyelids, but they stayed closed.

“He might not wake for a while,” Digg called over from his chair.

It almost didn’t matter. She idly debated standing next to him for as long as it took for his eyes to open. But that was crazy. She sighed to herself and let go, moving away. It had been such a stressful hour that she’d barely looked around her surroundings. The dark, musty surroundings. No matter what Oliver wanted to call it, this was a lair. His equipment lay around the room, organized but not displayed. There was a row of computers that she could see even from a distance had embarrassingly old software. The other half of the room was clearly devoted to working out. There were mats on the floor and weights in a corner, though the clear star was an enormous, ladder-like contraption that she just couldn’t figure out. Whatever it was, it looked painful.

All in all, Felicity would give the lair a C. B minus at best. It was a man cave, not that that surprised her. The decorative style was, testosterone. And something desperately needed to be done about those computers.

“Not impressed?” Diggle asked, and she looked back at him to catch him smiling.

“It’s pretty much what I expected,” she said with a shrug, and then added wryly, “The computers are a tragedy, though.”

“I am taking no responsibility for the look of this place. This was all Oliver.”

“Well, he certainly is no interior decorator.” Felicity walked to the edge of the wall. It was plain old cement, slightly damp to the touch. She grimaced and wiped her hand off on her skirt. “At least it’s functional. Except for the computers. They’re…not. And does it have to be this dark?”

He let out a chuckle. “You can ask Oliver when he wakes up. Maybe buy him a desk lamp.”

Felicity grinned back, a lightness spreading through her. _When_ he wakes up. He’d said “when.”

And then her new least favorite sound in the world started up again. Her stomach lurched and Diggle leapt out of the chair. “He’s going into cardiac arrest again.”

Felicity reached Oliver first and then calmed quickly down. “No. The leads just came loose.” She fixed them and Digg groaned and walked away, rubbing his face with his hands.

“It’s less stressful when he’s jumping off rooftops,” he said exasperatedly.

She smiled despite herself. “Always lands on his feet though. Like a cat.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that. Might give him a new costume idea.”

She shook her head, fingers absently stroking Oliver’s wrist again. “Doesn’t it feel kind of outlandish sometimes? The costume, the bow, the growly voice.”

“He has his reasons. Some of which he hasn’t chosen to share with me, some of which I’m sure he doesn’t realize himself.”

“I would love to hear them,” she mused. “When he wakes up.”

They considered the man on the table from their respective locations.

Digg finally broke the silence. “It’s funny. After the army, I had no idea what to do with myself, but never did I think that I would end up working for a billionaire vigilante.”

“And I thought I’d have more of a problem with the, you know, deadly part of the proceedings. The first time Oliver asked for my help, I said no. I mean, I changed my mind pretty quickly, but...” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head as she remembered how little time it took for her to trust the man in green.

“And look at us now.”

“Yeah.” She continued tracing patterns on Oliver’s thumb with her index finger. “Something about him just makes you…believe in him. He’s inspiring, even when he doesn’t mean to be.”

Diggle nodded. “And maybe one day he’ll know it.”

Felicity squeezed Oliver’s hand one more time before letting go. She walked slowly up to his bow. She’d been avoiding it all this time because she was afraid of not feeling the reasonable hesitation that a person should feel when staring down a weapon that had taken many lives before. But now, looking at its deliberate curve and careful strength, she could only see the symbol that it could become, a symbol not of violent justice but of a promise of protection.

She picked it up cautiously. It weighed less than she expected, and she pulled back the string slowly, pointing it at Diggle. “Do you think I could ever shoot this thing?” she asked lightly.

“Hell no. You think he lets me shoot it?”

“Does he?” she asked hopefully, closing one eye to aim an imaginary arrow and then letting it fly.

“Not unless we have no other choice. Tell you what, I’ll teach you what to do with a gun. Don’t tell him I told you this, but bows are generally pretty useless.”

“That’s not exactly a secret.” She put the bow back down, adjusting it so it lay exactly how Oliver had left it. “Well, seeing as you guys got the weapons all figured out, maybe I should do something about those…computers. I use the term loosely.”

Diggle got up from the chair. “Be my guest.”

Setting up a new network felt good. It kept her mind busy so that she had less time to fret about how long Oliver had been unconscious, or obsess over whether or not Digg might be right and Oliver might be pushing her away _because_ he cared about her. But there she went thinking about those things anyway.

Oliver had set up a lot of useful programs, but he’d missed even more, maybe due to an inability to hack into the FBI mainframe. She’d heard good things about facial recognition software. And now it was on the computers, and she just couldn’t wait to test that bad boy out. Assuming she got to stay.

Her last step was to hack into the police database and delete the samples of Oliver’s blood they collected at the crime scene. She was sure he hadn’t thought of that. And with all the arrests he’d had over the years (enough to fill a Wikipedia article that she had pinned to her suspect board back in her apartment) even a drop of DNA would be enough to lock him up for life. Seriously, how had he survived this long without her?

While the programs finished setting up, she and Diggle tended to hover around Oliver’s table. It had been several hours, and she knew both of them would pounce the moment he so much as cracked an eyelid. “He should wake up any time now,” Diggle kept saying, trying to reassure her, or maybe himself. She kept nodding like she agreed, even though she was already running through a list of everything that had probably gone wrong. Maybe when she dug out the bullet, or maybe when they had to defibrillate him twice, or…

In the end, she was the one staring at his face when she saw it twitch slightly. “Digg,” she gasped, and then they were both there, watching Oliver ease his eyes open. He blinked a couple of times and then winced as the pain hit him.

Oliver made a half-hearted attempt to roll onto his side before opting to stay on his back. “I guess I didn’t die,” he said hoarsely. “Again. Cool.”

“ _Cool_?” Felicity repeated incredulously, suddenly pissed beyond reason. At the sound of her voice, Oliver turned his head around, looking shocked and bewildered and was that a dopey smile tugging at his mouth? She plowed ahead anyway. “There was nothing cool about what just happened. You went into _cardiac arrest_.”

“Felicity, let the man cope,” said Diggle dryly. “He almost died. He gets a pass if he wants to act like an idiot.”

Oliver was wincing again as he tried to sit up. Felicity sprang forward and offered him her arm to hold on to. And then she remembered that their current relationship was complicated, to say the least, in that she had no idea what she was to him and was trying very hard not to think about what he was to her. They locked eyes with her hands inches from his. His forehead was creased with pain, but his gaze was intent on her like nothing else existed around them. And she couldn’t look away. And after a moment that might have been a second or an hour, she had no way of knowing, he took her offered hand and tried to pull himself up. She put a hand on his back to help push him upright, and he stiffened at the contact, and she almost drew back, but you know what, he needed help and if he didn’t like being this close to her, he could just suck it up.

But come to think of it, they really were close. Very, very close. He was gripping one of her hands tightly in his, and her other hand was right on the muscles of his back. Sitting upright had made him lean into her slightly, and she was pretty sure they hadn’t been this close to each other since Vegas. Blood rushed through her body. She really should not think about Vegas, especially when they were this close, especially when he was shirtless and staring at her. He needed to stop staring at her.

She let go of him and backed away. “Well, you’re sitting, so it seems like you’re fine. Even though you almost died.” She cleared her throat, avoiding his gaze and headed for her computers. Not that they were her computers. They were _not_ her computers. Well, not yet.

Diggle, who had been studiously avoiding looking at them, now tossed Oliver a blanket. “It’s not bad,” he said, gesturing at the bullet wound.

Felicity watched Oliver wrap himself in the blanket out of the corner of her eye. “So how am I going to explain this one?” he asked.

“Bad hickey,” Digg suggested, and she whipped her head around to catch him grinning.

The only way to win this was to ignore the obvious implication. “So anyway,” she began repressively, “I managed to get your computer system out of the 80s so, you’re welcome, and I also managed to, erm, _convince_ the SCPD to lose the sample of your blood they picked up earlier.”

“That’s a lot of work,” said Oliver quietly.

“Well, neither of you could’ve done it,” she said pointedly, holding his stare.

Oliver glanced over at Digg who nodded firmly. “She’s right, man. And she saved your life more than once today.”

He turned back to her, face still and solemn. “Thank you.”

That annoyed her even more. She didn’t want his thanks. She wanted him to let her in. She wanted this all to be so natural that thanks weren’t necessary, that they could save each other’s lives as a matter of course. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you planning on cutting me out again? I just need to know so that I can say goodbye now because you’ll be either dead or in jail in a week without me.”

Diggle let out a low whistle and Oliver shot him a glare before continuing to stare at Felicity, the confusion clear on his face.

Like he didn’t know what she was talking about. She got up out of her chair and strode to a spot right in front of him, the better to argue with him. But this might have been a mistake. He was so tall. “Look, Oliver, I know you’re worried, or guilty, or…maybe just stubborn. But you need me. And by me, I mean my computer skills.”

She held her breath, but all he did was look at her, his expression as unreadable as it had ever been. “Okay,” he said finally.

Her mouth went slack for a moment, and then she pulled herself together. “So does that mean I can join your…crusade?”

He blinked and tilted his head at her, like he couldn’t figure her out.

“Okay, I guess we’ll just shake on it before you get a chance to change your mind,” she said quickly, shoving her hand forward.

He took it carefully in his, his large callused hand wrapping completely around her small one. “Welcome to the team,” he said, and it should have sounded stilted and formal, but the corners of his mouth were tilting up like of their own accord, and she grinned back, eyes lost in his deep blue ones. For too long between them, there had been only goodbyes, all of them final, hopeless. But here, finally, was a hello.


End file.
